


we ruin too easy

by yennefers



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Season/Series 02, gay morons - freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23123254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yennefers/pseuds/yennefers
Summary: Dennis is a vet student, estranged, and hasn’t spoken to the gang since he ditched them for Penn State - Mac is an idiot, co-owner of a bar, and Dee’s best friend. They hate each other. Sort of.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 33
Kudos: 105





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for the 2019/2020 sunny big bang!! this fic is complete (which is a sentence i’ll NEVER get used to saying) and will update every thursday. huge thank you to [dani](http://meerkatmac.tumblr.com) for the [gorgeous art](https://bastarddennis.tumblr.com/post/612498204512108544/heres-my-art-for-the-iasipbigbang-i-was-lucky) that i can’t stop looking at and [cait](http://hyruling.tumblr.com) for proofreading 35k of morosexuality ♡

_October 7th_

Mac’s life goes to shit at 1am on a Tuesday night.

They’ve still got an hour ‘til close, technically. It doesn’t feel like it. The last few drunks have already stumbled out the door, so it’s just Mac, Dee, and the six-pack they found tucked away under the bar - and the drunker he gets, the more Mac can feel God giving him the stink-eye from up above.

“That makes three out of three.” Dee muffles a burp into her fist. “Pay up, dick.”

It’s not her best look, in Mac’s opinion. She’s leaning over the counter with one hand still curled around an empty bottle - they’re both dressed up to go out, but that was before the shots, and the chugging contest, and Dee spilling half a bottle of seven dollar rosé on her sweater. She shakes her sweaty hair out her eyes as Mac watches, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

“That’s disgusting.”

Dee shrugs.

“You’re just jealous,” she says, prodding his chest with a wavy, triumphant finger. “‘Cause I downed three beers and you barely managed one -”

“Shut up,” Mac snaps, “my - my form was off -”

“Your form was off three times in a row?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Mac repeats, and he’s either about to crack up laughing or get angry for real now, one of the two, but he doesn’t have time to find out - Dee’s phone starts buzzing on the bar. She scrambles for it with clumsy fingers.

“Hello?”

“Just hang up,” Mac advises. “Dee, hang up. Drive me home, Dee. I want to sleep.”

Dee smacks him on the arm.

“I’m trying to _listen_ ,” she hisses, and then she pulls away from Mac and says, “Wait, what? Who is this?”

Mac is about to lean over and hang up the phone for her when Dee’s body, without warning, goes very still. 

“Well,” she says. “I mean... It’s late, I don’t have - right now?”

She pauses.

“I can’t pick you up, idiot, I’m way over the limit. No - no cabs. Don’t get a cab. Go _away_. Just go back where you came from, I don’t care, stop trying to - I’m hanging up on you! Jesus Christ.”

Mac watches her flip her phone shut. Something heavy roils in his stomach, sharper and colder than alcohol.

“The hell was that all about?”

“Start packing up,” Dee says shortly, sliding off her stool and grabbing Mac’s arm as she goes. He groans.

“Why?”

“Because, moron,” Dee snaps, her nails digging into his skin, “Dennis is apparently in town, and he wants to talk to me. So -”

Adrenaline shudders through Mac like cracking ice.

“What, right now?”

“ _Yes_ , right now,” Dee says, pulling her jacket on with grim determination. “Get the lights.”

Mac, for the first time in his life, doesn’t argue - the bar plunges into darkness with a click. They both hurry out the back door, stumbling, with only Dee’s dim phone light to guide them through the alleyway. It’s cold, and Dee’s grip on his wrist is getting painful, and he’s way too drunk to be moving this much. Mac grits his teeth and pushes forward anyway.

“You got your keys?”

“You are not driving my car,” Dee says. Mac huffs.

“I don't want to drive your shitty car, but you’re way too wasted to get us anywhere.”

“So are you!”

“I’m less wasted,” Mac argues. “And I’ve got great reflexes, so -”

“Mac, drop it.”

“D’you want to get out of here or not?”

“My car means my rules,” Dee snaps - and then, before Mac has time to fight back:

“Wait, what happened to Dee’s car?”

Mac’s heart slams into his throat. He jumps back instinctively and trips over his own feet, smacking onto the concrete ass-first - he hears cursing, and an odd spraying sort of sound, and then -

“Ow,” Charlie’s voice says. He coughs wetly. “Oh, fucking - that burns, Dee!”

“I thought you were a creep!”

“So you _maced_ me?”

“Yes, I maced you,” Dee hisses. Stunned, Mac opens his eyes, blinking; then closes them again, because the world is alarmingly out of focus.

“Dude,” he groans. “Charlie, you’ve got to stop sneaking around like that, you scared the shit out of us.”

“You scared the shit out of me!” Charlie protests, sounding hoarse and indignant. “Here I am, trying to climb down the gutter -”

“You were on the gutter?”

“I like watching the sunset on the roof.” Charlie coughs again, shrugging. “Fell asleep, lost track of time.”

“Whatever,” Dee says, “I don’t care - can we hurry up and get out of here, please? Before Dennis shows up?”

“Well, no,” Mac points out. “‘Cause we still need to pick a getaway driver. Which should be me, by the way.”

Dee’s jaw tightens. She makes a high, ominous sound in her throat.

“Mac, he’s gonna be here any second, just get in the goddamn car -”

“Let me drive!”

“We don’t have _time_ for this -”

“Don’t have time for what?” another voice says from behind them.

Dee shrieks.

* * *

“Why did you mace me twice, Dee?”

“You’re fine,” Dee mutters, massaging her temples. “Look, we’ll get you home so you can wash your eyes out, you’ve lived through worse.”

They’re all crammed in the men’s bathroom. Charlie’s hair is dripping miserably onto the tiles, because he’s spent the past five minutes with his face shoved under a faucet, and Mac’s back is throbbing. He’s pretty sure there’s a graze on his thigh from hitting the sidewalk but he’s not exactly about to check, because -

Because Dennis is on his left, standing far too close for comfort. Dennis is _here_ , in their bar, and he looks pointedly out of place in his dumb collared shirt and fitted jeans, his dark curls made darker by the rain. He’s here in the flesh, and Mac hates him so much that his throat has closed up. Everything feels over-exposed. Like one prod from the wrong person could send all his secrets tumbling out.

He’s way, _way_ too hammered for this.

“Can we talk?” Dennis says, right on cue. Dee groans.

“I told you not to come!”

“I’m aware of that.” Still annoying as ever, then. “But I have some important shit to say and I knew you’d be here, so -”

“Dennis -”

“I know I haven't been around much recently,” Dennis says, loudly.

“Five years,” Dee mutters. Dennis starts to frown.

“I’m trying to make a point.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I’m sorry you finally remembered I exist after half a fucking decade, Dennis, _thank you_ -”

“That’s not what this is about!” Dennis snarls, and Mac decides, then and there, that he’s calling it quits. He waits for a second, just to make sure they’re still at each other’s throats, before he starts backing away towards the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” 

Dennis’s grip on his sleeve is demandingly tight. He looks the same, Mac notes, risking a glance up at his face; same eyes, at least. He’s a little thinner. It’s difficult to stay focused with all the alcohol thrumming through him.

Mac licks his lips.

“Uh. Home?”

“It’s 2am,” Dee cuts in, shooting Dennis a particularly filthy glare. “We were about to leave before you showed up, so -”

“Fine,” Dennis snaps. He deflates a little after that; sighing, running one hand through his hair. “Dee, I’m in Philly ‘til New Year’s, I’m staying with you, sorry I didn’t call, whatever. Happy now?”

“No,” Dee says immediately. “And - no, what the fuck, you’re not staying with me! I’m not having my estranged asshole brother in my _one bed_ apartment for three months. That’s insane.”

Dennis’s cheeks are turning an interesting, unpleasant shade of red.

“Well where the hell else am I supposed to stay?”

“I don't know, Dennis! Go crash with mom and dad or something, I don't care! You’re not my problem.”

Dennis scoffs.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Dee says. “Figure something else out.”

“Uh, guys?” Charlie yawns. His cheeks look ruddy, his eyes red and sore. “Can someone drive me home?”

“Dennis can do it,” Dee says tartly, not missing a beat. “And then he can drive _himself_ to a hotel.”

Dennis looks, for a moment, like he’s going to retort. Dee’s black stiletto treads on his foot.

“I’ll drop you off, Charlie,” he mutters.

There’s a brief scuffle over who gets the backseat. Dee dives for it first, apparently intent on staying as far away from Dennis as possible, and Charlie clambers in after her, practically melting onto the leather - which leaves Mac, cursing under his breath, to reluctantly sit up front. Dennis’s shitty rental makes a weird wheezing noise with every gear change, but Mac still finds himself dozing, lulled into it by the silence and the rhythmic flashes of street lights on the window.

“Here’s good,” Charlie pipes up. His voice cuts into Mac’s consciousness like a fish hook, pulling him awake. Dennis pulls up on the curb - Charlie stumbles out, and Dee promptly grabs her bag and follows him.

“Woah, hey,” says Dennis, wide eyed, “what are you -”

“My place is five minutes from here,” Dee tells him, slamming the door shut. “Fuck off and leave me alone.”

“We’re not done, Dee,” Dennis shouts after her, winding his window down. Dee ignores him, except to keep walking and raise her middle finger up.

“Bitch,” Dennis mutters.

“She’ll be around tomorrow,” Mac offers lamely. He half-remembers that look on Dennis’s face: what it means, and what can follow it, and how to make it go away. Dennis flexes his hands and glances over at the passenger seat, like he’s just remembered Mac’s there at all, which… knowing Dennis, is probably not too far from the truth.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”

It’s ten minutes from Charlie’s building to Mac’s. Somehow the drive feels longer tonight, despite the deserted streets. Mac mumbles directions in between chewing on his thumbnail, looking stubbornly out the passenger side window and nowhere else - and when Dennis finally pulls up and cuts the engine he’s relieved to escape, but silence floods in before he can. It’s prickly and weighted, making it difficult to move. Difficult to think.

“So…” Mac says, eventually. “Uh. How are you?”

“It’s 2am.” Dennis sounds cool and even. “My flight was late, and my sister tried to mace me. What do you think?”

Mac exhales.

“Right.” He licks his lips, trying to stay focused. Then: “Dennis -”

“I should -”

They both go quiet at once, like two blown fuses. Dennis clears his throat.

 _You should fuck off_ , is what Mac wants to say. _That’s what you should do._

He glances at him, mouth opening; but it turns out Dennis is already looking at him, and the words die off in his throat.

“What time do you open?”

“...What?”

“The bar,” Dennis says slowly, like he’s stating the obvious. “Tomorrow. What time do you open?”

“Eleven,” Mac says. Dennis nods, just once. It makes the white glow from the streetlight splay out on his face. Mac looks down at his hands.

“Thanks for the ride,” he mutters, picking at his thumbnail.

“See you around,” Dennis says. His voice states, quite clearly, that he couldn’t care less whether that happens or not.

Mac shuts his eyes. He grabs the door handle without looking and wrenches it open, stumbling out - he can feel a telltale prickling on his arms, the back of his neck, that says Dennis is watching him. It’s a feeling that stays until he reaches his building’s door, and then he hears the car engine roar to life behind him, the fading sound of it pulling off the curb. Mac scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He heads into the stairwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com) x


	2. Chapter 2

_October 8th_

The list of things Dennis hates is not, contrary to popular belief, particularly long. It includes the following: small children, big dogs, his father, people who don’t signal, and chain motels.

Items one through three are easy to avoid. Four is an irritating but manageable fact of life. Even chain motels aren’t especially dangerous outright. Motels, like poison gas or venomous snakes, can’t hurt you if you don’t get close.

According to his phone screen, it’s been nine hours since Dennis stumbled into his room. In that time, he’s decided that he doesn’t like the sheets, or the mattress, or the smell, or the weird black spots on his bathroom wall; he hates the people arguing down the hall, and he really, really hates the ominous burns on the shag carpet. He made a promise the last time he stayed at a dump like this, that he wouldn’t do it to himself or his body ever again, but keeping promises has never really been his area of expertise, so.

Here he is.

“This is her fault,” he mutters to the bathroom mirror. “She’s being absurd.”

Reflection-Dennis stares back at him, looking pallid and wan under the cheap fluorescent light. Dennis winces. He looks down at the sink instead.

You can never go home again _._ That’s what everyone says, anyway; but he’s decided to call bullshit, because the people spouting that theory clearly have no clue what they’re talking about. Dennis has a degree, a better haircut, a new wardrobe, and three different postgrad courses clamoring for his attention - if anything, home is the only thing that _hasn’t_ changed. Nothing in Philly ever does. It’s like a weird, stagnant pond. Which is enough for Dee, apparently, and it’s enough for her friends, but Dennis is wired differently. He wants more.

What does Dee even have in her life? It’s kind of sad. She’s got shares in a crappy, failing bar, the same two friends she’s clung to since high school, and not much else; it’s understandable that she hates him this much. She resents him for having the guts to leave. That doesn’t make it Dennis’s problem. If anything, he’s doing her a favour by coming back at all - there’s no line in the sibling rule book about running back into the family dumpster fire after getting yourself out, but he’s doing it anyway. She’ll thank him, eventually, once she realizes he’s right.

Dennis wrinkles his nose. There’s something in the air, a stale, lingering sourness - sweat and plane smell, he realizes. This is what he gets for not changing clothes. He’d had the perfect reunion do-over outfit all planned out, but his luggage is still in the car and he hasn’t slept for two days. Yesterday’s sweater will have to do.

It was supposed to go like this: his flight landed on time, instead of two hours late. Dee picked up on the first ring. She met him outside the airport terminal - quiet, furious, but willing to listen to his side of the story - and Dennis got to give her the speech he’s been practising for the past few months, about how important it is that they reconnect (which is true). How people with parents like theirs should stick together (also true). It wasn’t intentional, slipping off the radar the way he did (which isn’t true, but only just - and everybody knows white lies don’t count).

 _You’re an asshole, Dennis,_ Dee would tell him, the deadpan way she always does. And afterwards they’d fit together like they used to, all the cracks smoothed away into nothing, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

His plan didn’t involve this shitty motel room. It didn’t involve the Philly rush hour, either - which he elects to avoid, reluctantly leaving his car behind and setting off on foot instead. 

The bar is a good forty minute walk away. It looks deserted, and somehow even shittier in daylight; so it’s a testament to the morning he’s having that Dennis actually feels relieved when he crosses the sidewalk and makes a break for the door, ignoring the stitch in his side.

“Dee, we’re going to talk,” he announces as he strides in, and Dee is -

Dee is...

“Not in today, bro. Try again next month.”

It takes a second for Dennis’s head to catch up with his eyes. He knows the voice, but not the guy it comes from: he’s lean but broad shouldered, with a mop of dark hair that hangs in his face as he studies something on the countertop. The disconnect lasts until Mac glances up, meeting his eyes, and then recognition slams into Dennis without warning.

“You said she’d be here,” he points out. The words escape before he has time to vet them. Mac looks away, drumming his fingers on the wood.

“Well, she isn’t,” he says. “And we’re closed, so… your problem.”

“Can you at least -”

“We’re closed,” Mac repeats flatly. “Come back later.”

It’s like a door slamming in his face. Worse, somehow, because Mac looks away again afterwards and goes back to whatever shit he was doing before, like Dennis is already gone. It’s rude and juvenile and unprofessional, which is why Dennis feels totally vindicated in flicking a stray bottle cap at him over the counter. Hard.

“ _Ow_ \- what the _-_ ”

“Dee,” Dennis says, as commanding as he can, clicking his fingers impatiently. “Address. Now.”

“Dennis, no offence,” Mac says, scowling as he rubs his neck, “but I’m not telling you shit about her. I don’t wanna die.”

Dennis’s stomach flips a little. It’s surreal, hearing Mac say his name properly for the first time since God knows when, but it’s even weirder hearing him say it when he looks like this: taller and broader than Dennis remembers, his jawline sturdier, hair grown out. He has tattoos now, Dennis notes, glancing at Mac’s bare arms. Shitty, predictable tattoos that stand out in the bar’s dim light.

Dennis clears his throat.

“I just want to talk,” he says stiffly. “To her, I mean. Not you.”

Mac snorts. He shakes his head, like Dennis said something funny, and then leans against the back wall and stretches lazily, closing his eyes.

“Mac,” Dennis snaps. Something inside him is unravelling - he has to bite back the other words that creep up behind his teeth, resisting the urge to lash out. 

Dee, he reminds himself. He’s doing this for Dee. So he can drag her out of this hell pit and into the light.

Dennis exhales.

“Look, man.” He keeps his voice as peaceable as he can. “All you need to do to get me out of here is tell me where she is, all right? Nothing crazy. I just need to -”

“Fuck off back where you came from,” Mac finishes, nodding as he folds his arms. “Yeah. I agree.”

It makes his irritation flare up again; sparking, sharp to the touch. He swallows with a click. Mac’s brows are raised and he glances pointedly between Dennis and the door, and that’s _it_ : the loose thread in Dennis’s chest pulls taut, demanding that he do something, anything, whatever it takes to get the upper hand.

“Fine,” Dennis retorts. “I’ll call her.”

“You do that,” Mac says agreeably. He sits himself down on a stool behind the bar, resting his elbows on the counter and propping his chin in his hands, and then he watches Dennis get sent to voicemail seven fucking times in a row, grinning without saying a word.

“What?” Dennis snaps, when it becomes apparent that the seventh call isn’t getting picked up. Mac rolls his eyes.

“Nothing. Jesus.”

He uncaps two beers and slides one across the counter, meeting Dennis’s eyes briefly before his gaze flicks away. 

“It’s barely ten,” Dennis points out. Mac shrugs.

“So what? Happy hour somewhere.”

“You’re supposed to drink cocktails at happy hour,” Dennis mutters, but he steps forward anyway, sliding onto the nearest stool and wincing at the loud, ominous creaking that provokes. “Christ, when was the last time you replaced these?”

“You gonna give us money to fix them?” Mac asks. Dennis goes still, his beer halfway to his mouth.

“No.”

“Then don’t bitch where you drink,” Mac says mildly.

Dennis huffs. He takes a slow sip of beer, hoping to God it plays nice with the espressos he downed earlier, and tries to ignore the way Mac’s staring at him. He’s doing the same thing Dennis was, probably: finding all the differences and taking them in. No tattoos, in Dennis’s case, but he still wants to know the parts of him that are catching Mac’s eye. He stopped letting his curls grow out last year, and he’s grown into his height since he left Philly - he’s less gangly, less awkward, he figured out how foundation works.

He’s doing fine by himself. _Good_ , even. He wants someone to notice.

Mac closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders, stretching, before he heaves a tray of lemons up from under the bar and starts slicing them into uneven wedges. When Dennis finishes his beer he doesn’t get offered another, but he isn’t told to fuck off either. It feels like a peace offering. Mac’s bizarre, convoluted version of one. 

Since there’s nothing else to look at, Dennis’s eyes drift back onto him. Mac’s chewing his bottom lip absently as he concentrates. It’s the most familiar he’s looked all day: that’s the face he used to make at algebra, or English assignments, or Charlie’s arm when he was doodling all over it. 

For the most part, Dennis remembers him differently. Mac’s always been brash, true, but he used to be kind of coltish underneath. Unsteady, almost. Like he was trying to find his feet but he didn’t want anyone to see. There’s a tangible confidence in him now, imbued into the way he talks, the way he moves, which is… interesting. In an annoying sort of way. Mostly it’s just new.

At least his hair is still bad, Dennis thinks, marginally comforted. He sighs, picking at the bottle label.

“How’s school?”

Dennis freezes.

“Fine,” he says. “It’s… good. I graduated.”

Mac cocks his head to one side.

“Are you done yet?”

“What do you mean, am I done?” Dennis frowns. “What kind of -”

“You’ve been there forever, bro,” Mac protests. “The fuck kind of degree lasts five years? How much more do you think you can fit in your pretty boy head?”

“Five years is a perfectly reasonable length of time,” Dennis snaps, “just because you’ve - and it was only four, technically, it’s not… I don’t need to explain myself to you! Jesus Christ. Yes, it lasted five years, no, I’m not done.”

“If you try to learn too much at once, your brain explodes,” Mac says sagely. “Charlie told me.”

“Great,” Dennis mutters, massaging his temples. “Good to know.”

For a brief, blissful moment, Mac stays quiet. Dennis starts to hope that he’s escaped the rest of the conversation. Until:

“...So when _are_ you done?”

Dennis exhales, hard. 

“Whenever I get into vet school and graduate,” he retorts, with enough venom to keep Mac from prodding any deeper. “Another four years. Probably.”

“That’s fucking miserable,” Mac says - frowning at him, ignoring Dennis’s tone entirely. Dennis’s stomach tightens.

“I mean,” he says, off-guard. “Yeah, I guess, but it _has_ to be, man. That’s how it works. Getting a career off the ground.”

Mac’s answering hum says, _I think you’re wrong, but I don’t give enough of a shit to fight you on it._ He gets up, thank God, and heads over to the tangled line of fairy lights strung across the back wall, turning them on.

It’s the same easygoing confidence as before. Mac navigates this space like it’s second nature: flicking crumbs off tables as he passes them, kicking an extension cord without looking to make an ancient pinball machine stutter to life. He disappears into a back room and emerges with a case of mixers that he drops expectantly by Dennis’s feet.

“Unpack these.”

Dennis stares at him. Mac’s stood there with his arms folded, bottom lip stubbornly stuck out. His cheeks are pink, just a little, from carting boxes around - good to know that the art of intimidation is still lost on him, despite this newfound cockiness of his.

“No,” Dennis says slowly. “Your bar, your problem.”

Mac groans.

“Dude. Come on, Dee was supposed to open with me today, you’re the one who scared her off. Can you at least -”

“Nope,” Dennis says, popping the p. “Busy.”

Mac glares at him. Dennis rolls his eyes but doesn’t look away. Mac has nice lashes, he registers distantly - or he would, if his hair didn’t fall in front of them every five seconds. Mac makes an odd, muffled noise that morphs into a cough. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “You - go outside then, get out of here. I have shit to do.”

“Gladly,” Dennis says. He slides off his stool - which gives another loud, alarming creak as he does - and heads over to the door. 

It’s raining. Not hard, but persistently enough to make him duck into the sheltered alley he spots behind the bar. Dennis shuts his eyes, counting back from ten. He digs his phone out his pocket.

Dee doesn’t pick up. Dennis only gets four calls in this time before admitting defeat: regardless of what he wants, or what the angry aching in his chest wants, clearing the air isn’t happening today.

She can’t avoid him forever, at least. Whether or not she’ll actually try to, that’s another matter entirely; but at some point, the levee will have to break. If she’d just _listen_ -

“Fuck,” Dennis mutters. His clenched fists are buzzing like they’re looking for a target to crash into - a wall, maybe, or a warm body - he shakes them out, stretching his fingers one by one, and reaches for the emergency cigarettes in his pocket. Screw it. Quitting can wait until next year.

It takes a second for the flame to catch. Dennis cups a palm around it, hiding it from the wind and rain. The knot in his chest starts to loosen as he breathes in. In, then out.

Dennis doesn’t spot him at first. He's got his head bowed with his eyes on the sidewalk, absorbed in thought and smoke. It takes a telltale prickle on the back of his neck to make him look up. Mac’s stood by what looks like a back entrance to the bar, hovering in the doorway - he’s got a box of recycling in his arms, but he’s not doing anything to get rid of it. Just staring, like Dennis is something he wasn’t expecting to see. A wild animal, maybe, or a health inspector.

“What?” Dennis demands.

Mac scowls at him.

“Did you call her again?”

It’s either a question or an accusation - he can’t tell which. Either way, it pisses him off. He stubs the cigarette out on the wall behind him. Waste of a good smoke, but thanks to Mac he’s not in the mood anymore; too wired, too irritated.

“That’s none of your goddamn business -”

“Dee’s a bitch, but she’s my friend,” Mac says bluntly. “And you’re acting like an asshole. That makes it my business.”

 _I was your friend too,_ Dennis doesn’t say, swallowing thickly; but even as the resentment flares, he knows it’s not the same. Five years is a long time to be gone. It's not like there weren't any warning signs. Somewhere on the road between fourteen and seventeen, Mac and Dee just started hovering in the same orbit, hanging out alone, having whispered conversations that always stopped the second Dennis walked into the room - Dennis had cared at first, until the library, and then he’d stopped caring about it. Eventually he’d stopped being in the same room at all.

“Give her a few days to cool off,” Mac advises. “Fuck around in the city ‘til next week, try again later. If you keep this up she’s gonna claw your face off.”

“I don’t have a few days,” Dennis says waspishly. “I have - this was supposed to be sorted by now, she’s ruining the plan -”

“You’re pretty new to this whole apology thing, aren’t you?” says Mac, and Dennis could literally kill him then and there - which apparently shows on his face, judging by Mac’s hasty step backwards.

“C’mon, you know what I mean -”

“No,” Dennis shoots back, his voice getting louder, “no, frankly, I don’t. And I’m tired, and I had the worst goddamn sleep of my entire life last night, and I haven’t showered in two days, so _excuse me_ if I’m a little on edge, all right?”

Mac’s looking at him weirdly. Dennis waits for him to laugh, and as he does the rain changes direction, falling into the alley head on. He hangs his head and ends up being the one laughing instead: breathless and defeated.

“Perfect,” he mutters.

Mac watches him for a long half minute. He tilts his head back, chewing his bottom lip, like he’s mulling something over.

“Holy shit, you are over-dramatic,” he says finally.

“I’m not dramatic,” Dennis snaps. Before he has time to add anything else, Mac chucks the box in his arms onto the ground and heads to the alley entrance - shouldering past Dennis as he goes, just close enough that Dennis stumbles. He curses, trailing behind him.

“Hurry up,” Mac says, glancing back. He jerks his head at the street ahead of them. “Before it starts shitting it down.”

* * *

Dennis resigns himself, for the first five minutes of the drive, to the fact that Mac is taking him back to the fucking motel like a lamb to slaughter. He’s just about come to terms with his fate when Mac takes a left instead of driving straight, heading down an unfamiliar road. His heart jumps.

“Is this Dee’s place?”

“Dennis,” Mac advises. “Shut up.”

Dennis scowls. He looks out the window instead, picking at his cuticles.

Mac’s parking is atrocious. Dennis is about to break the news to him, and possibly give him some tips, but then Mac gets out and jogs through the rain to a brick apartment building over the road. It’s familiar, but he can’t place why - not until he looks at Mac's figure again, stood by the entrance, and a hazy memory of the night before stirs to the surface. 

Dennis swallows. He scrambles out of his seat.

It feels like it takes years for them to reach the front door, and then another decade for Mac to unlock it. When he flicks the main light on they end up just standing there, face to face, for a long minute.

“You can crash on the couch for a few hours,” Mac says, stilted. “It’s a futon thing, Charlie used it when he lived here. I’ll drive you back after I’m done at the bar.”

Nothing computes. Dennis just stares at him, blank, trying to pull meaning out of words that feel empty of it - and then it all hits at once.

“The couch,” he echoes. “You… your couch.”

“Yes,” Mac says, like Dennis is being unbelievably dumb. “Jesus Christ, dude, you sure you went to college?”

“Shut up,” Dennis mutters. He starts to think, his mind racing unsteadily. Mac has an angle. There’s one in play, there has to be. So what is it? Who’s benefiting from it?

“Why are you doing this?”

He’s too tired to be subtle. Mac always responded better to stuff like this, anyway: prompts that hit on the nose. He needs statements, as opposed to the kind of word games Dennis used to play with Dee. Clear, unequivocal things.

“Because if I don’t deal with you, Dee won’t show up at work tonight,” Mac says bluntly, which. Okay. Fair point. 

Dennis’s throat works around a response that doesn’t come. He’s been silent for a beat too long. _Say something,_ his mind hisses, _come on, anything -_

“Right,” Mac announces. His voice is too loud, making them both wince. “Well… see you later. I guess.”

“Later,” Dennis echoes. Mac nods. He turns on his heel and doesn’t run for the door, exactly, but he’s not far off. The air gets palpably lighter once he’s gone. Dennis exhales, closing his eyes.

He’s been off kilter since the plane landed, if he’s being honest with himself. That’s probably what’s causing it: the weird tension he and Mac keep running into headfirst. It’s only there because Dennis isn’t at his best. 

That’s it, he realizes. That makes sense. All he needs is a shower, hot coffee, and some genuine, actual sleep. He needs to regroup; edit the game plan a little. He needs to stop veering off-track.

The bathroom is tiny but thankfully clean. Dennis’s first and strongest instinct is to pry - to inspect the contents of the soap caddy, peer into a cabinet on the wall that’s been left ajar - but he pushes it down and focuses studiously on washing his hair instead. No distractions. Mac included. He’s pretty proud of himself for how well he follows this new rule right up until he finally turns the hot water off, pushing soaked curls out his eyes, and glances around for a towel.

Shit.

Mac has to have one, Dennis reasons. Men in their twenties, himself excluded, tend to have dubious approaches to personal hygiene - but anyone who keeps their bathroom tiling this spotless owns a towel. They have to.

“I’m not spying,” Dennis mutters aloud, prodding open the cabinet door, because he _isn’t_. He’s not spying and he’s not distracted, either. He’s making tactical decisions in a crisis.

He doesn’t find a towel. He does, however, find breath mints, a crumpled pile of clothes, a bottle of bleach, and a literal, honest-to-christ sword, lovingly wrapped in a ripped t-shirt. Dennis cocks his head at the haul, considering.

He settles for the cleanest looking picks of the bunch: faded sweatpants, soft and gray, and an equally tired hoodie. His hair, unfortunately, is a lost cause - no product and no towel means it’s gonna curl no matter what he does. He’ll have to do damage control in the morning.

Dennis squeezes the bridge of his nose. There’s a headache building there; roaring dully like distant thunder. He’s hungry but too tired to do anything about it, so he settles gingerly on Mac’s couch instead, dragging the blanket with him for good measure. 

He should turn the TV on, he thinks muzzily. That way he won’t fall asleep. It’s not fair that the remote is so far away, though.

The air turns thick and warm. Time passes indiscriminately and Dennis just sort of floats above it - he’s caught in that weird place, the boundary line between dozing and actual sleep, where nothing feels particularly real at all. He has no idea how long he’s been there when the back of his neck starts to prickle.

Dennis frowns. He shifts reluctantly in his cocoon and cracks his eyes open, trying to resettle into a new position - and then he freezes still.

“Were you spying on me?”

“What the fuck,” Dennis mutters, rubbing his eyes. “What the - _no_ , moron, I’ve been asleep on your crappy couch this entire time, why the hell would I spy on you?”

“That’s my shirt,” Mac points out. His voice sounds oddly tight. “And those are my sweats. That counts as spying.” He shifts from foot to foot, like he’s trying to figure out a better retort, and then he blurts out, “and I don’t know! For… for Dee intel, or for -”

“Mac, if I wanted to spy on Dee, I’d spy on Dee,” Dennis says wearily, pushing himself upright. “And I didn’t spy, for chrissakes. Stop calling it spying, opening cabinets isn’t spying -”

“It is if I have important shit in there!”

Dennis squints up at him.

“Important shit,” he echoes. “Like… what, breath mints?”

“Yeah,” Mac says stubbornly. “Maybe.”

Dennis has a very good retort in mind, but he never gets it out. His body takes over and he ends up yawning instead, muffling it into his elbow, eyes shut. Mac’s got that weird, constipated expression on his face again when he looks up: Dennis is too out of practise to discern any meaning from it. He rolls his eyes instead, taking a shot in the dark.

“I didn’t spy on you, man,” he promises. “Swear to god. I was just looking for a towel.”

“Bedroom closet,” Mac replies, sounding distracted. His expression flicks between at least five more things that Dennis can’t parse before he steps back, shaking his head like a dog. “It’s fine. Whatever.”

There are flecks of rain dotted on the shoulders of his jacket. Dennis glances over at the window and jolts: it’s dark outside now, almost fully.

“Jesus, what time is it?”

Mac shrugs.

“Six. Or, like. Six-ish, I guess. It was six when I drove home.”

He rocks on the balls of his feet for a second, looking at Dennis with more focus, his head tilted. _Drive me back,_ Dennis wants to say. _You said you would, so stop fucking around and do it._ Sleep is still clinging to him like cobwebs. He’s tired, hungry, slipping steadily towards that point where he starts getting mean, and he’d rather be alone when that happens - for his own sake, rather than Mac’s. He’s got enough to be embarrassed about right now without adding a public outburst to the mix. If he’s going to work himself into a panic he’d rather do it alone, thank you.

“You eaten yet?”

Dennis blinks.

“No,” he says. “You fucking kidnapped me, man, when would I have time to -”

“All right,” Mac cuts in, looking riled. “I was just gonna order pizza, Jesus.”

Heat flares in Dennis’s chest. It’s either embarrassment, anger, or a little of the two, he can’t tell.

“I’m not hungry.”

Mac throws his hands up in the air.

“Great, Dennis,” he snaps. “Good for you.”

He orders some anyway, leaning back against the wall and twisting his shirt absently around one finger while he talks. Mac kicks one socked foot forward as Dennis watches, slouching lazily - it draws Dennis’s eyes to the curve of his body, trailing from his throat down to his chest, and from there to his thighs, his calves. Did he get taller? Is that even possible once you’re past eighteen? Maybe it’s the scruffy stubble on his face that’s throwing him off. That’s definitely new. 

“Food in thirty,” Mac says, glancing over as he hangs up. Dennis’s eyes flick to the floor.

“I don’t want any.”

“Whatever, dude.” Mac stretches, yawning loudly. “Nobody said you had to eat it. I’m fucking starving.”

The truce they end up in is an uneasy one. Mac keeps a firm one meter radius between himself and the couch at all times, working quietly around Dennis like he’s not even there at all; it’s jarring, but infinitely preferable to the alternative. Dennis is too exhausted to keep their current arguments alive, let alone start any new ones. He doesn’t even realize he’s dozing until the knock at the door jolts him awake. Dennis blinks, bearings not quite settled, and hears voices murmuring behind him, the rustle of plastic bags changing hands.

“Catch,” Mac says. He tosses something in Dennis’s vague direction - Dennis curses, scrambling up to grab it before it makes landfall on the floor.

“What the fuck?” he hisses. “You nearly hit me.”

Mac leans back against the wall, chewing. He rolls his eyes.

“You’re not hit. Quit side seat driving.”

Dennis stares at him. Mac stares right back, looking nonplussed - then he frowns, swallows, and says, “Independence Day, dude. When they’re… that bit at the end? With the nuke and the mothership? And Levinson’s freaking out or whatever, and then Will Smith is like -”

“This is a movie, I’m guessing,” Dennis says. Mac freezes, a pizza slice halfway to his mouth.

“Yes, Dennis,” he says, with painful slowness. “It’s a movie.”

Dennis has the distinct feeling, based on Mac’s expression, that he’s said something terrible. Before he can figure out what it is he gets distracted by the bag on his lap.

For the sake of pride, he doesn’t touch the fries until Mac’s distracted by his phone. They’re lukewarm but good nonetheless; and they’re filling, and they make Dennis feel better, which is irritating. He hates being in debt to people for things he didn’t even ask for. Didn’t even _need_ , really - Mac just jumped in and took control without asking, as if he knew better -

There’s a flicker of light behind the blinds. Thunder rolls a few seconds later, loud enough to make them both jump, and underneath it all is the rapid tapping of rain on the window. Dennis thinks about his hotel room, with its thin walls and weird damp spots, and then forces himself to stop thinking about it before the dread gets too strong.

“God, this was a mistake,” he mutters.

“Which part?”

Dennis’s head whips up. He glares at Mac, waiting for the punchline; but Mac’s just watching him, curious, arms folded.

“This,” Dennis says stiffly. “Coming back here. All of it.”

Mac shrugs.

“You’re just doing it wrong.”

“Well how the hell should I be doing it, exactly?”

Mac rolls his eyes.

“Bro, _unclench_. Jesus. All I’m saying is you’re trying too hard. It’s gonna take longer the more you force it.”

And that, right there, is the problem.

Dennis doesn’t need Dee to like him in a few weeks. He needs it now. He needs something tangible to hold onto, something, _anything_ \- a morse code message, a fucking smoke signal - that says he hasn’t actually screwed this up beyond repair. He can’t stand it, the idea of walking around like normal, knowing at least one person out there expects the worst of him. He doesn’t get how anyone could. It just sets something off, a thousand little nerve endings sparking off wrong, cutting inward instead of pushing out - and it’s worse because it’s Dee. It’s worse for all the obvious reasons and a few hundred more besides. If anyone knows enough about him to ruin his life, it’s his sister.

Mac sighs.

“Leave her alone for a week,” he advises. “Trust me. Or I’ll kick your ass.”

“You couldn’t kick anybody’s ass, Mac,” Dennis mutters. 

The idea is already taking root, though. He’s not enthused by it, but he could do a week. He could handle a week. It’s not that long; if anything, it would give him more time to prepare.

“I kick ass every day of my life,” Mac informs him solemnly. “I had a six pack over the summer, bro, not my fault you missed the main event.”

“It’s October,” Dennis points out. Mac shrugs, unfazed.

“Yeah. So now I’m carbo-loading and bulking up for cold weather. All part of the plan.”

“You are so full of shit,” Dennis says. Mac tilts his head back against the wall with a snort. Thunder rolls again and Dennis shuts his eyes for a second, hiding a yawn in his elbow.

He needs to leave. He’s been here too long already. Dinner was a mistake - if he stays any longer he’s going to fall asleep again, and Dennis might be tired, but he knows a risk when he sees one. Mac’s apartment is drier and cleaner than his motel room. That doesn’t make it safe.

He finds himself trailing awkwardly in Mac’s shadow, watching him clear away pizza boxes and pile dishes in the sink. Christ, he just needs to say something. How is this so difficult? The words get halfway out and then disintegrate; meanwhile Mac is acting as if he isn’t there at all, navigating around Dennis’ presence behind him like he’s some sort of moving houseplant, or a particularly shitty poltergeist. 

Finally, Mac turns away from the counter. He wipes his hands on his jeans and grabs a lighter out of a drawer. Dennis sighs, relieved. Mac’s weed isn’t stellar, if memory serves, but at the very least smoking will loosen his tongue. Or… it would. If Mac had weed. Which, as it turns out, he does not. He just has a huge, ugly candle on his kitchen table.

“Since when do you like scented candles?” 

The words slip out his mouth of their own accord. He realizes, afterwards, that he sounds like an asshole - but Mac just laughs a little, glancing back at him.

“I don’t,” he clarifies. “Went out with this guy who worked at a spa, scored a tonne of free shit off him. Figured I might as well use it, you know?”

It’s the way Mac says it. The easy, unbothered tone of his voice: like he’s commenting on the weather or stating a fact. He doesn’t even flinch at Dennis’s silence, tucking the lighter in his pocket and grabbing a beer from an open six pack under the table, cracking the tab and taking a slow sip.

“You… ” Dennis starts. He swallows.

“I’m gay,” Mac says evenly. “If that’s gonna be an issue for you, bro, you can get the fuck out and crash on someone else’s couch.”

“No.” Dennis can hear himself from far away; his voice is awkward, way too tense. “No, it’s - that’s fine. That’s… fine. I wasn’t -”

It sounded so normal, coming from Mac. It’s never been like that for him. Every time Dennis says it sounds like the first time. The word doesn’t seem to fit right in his mouth.

Dennis grits his teeth.

“It’s fine,” he repeats, not entirely sure who he’s talking to. “I… me too. So.”

Mac’s eyebrows lift, just barely, midway through another sip of his beer. Dennis ducks his head, breathing out through his nose, trying to make his skin stop crawling through sheer force of will.

“And who said I’m crashing with you?” he adds sharply, latching onto his irritation and holding tight. Getting angry will help him find his feet. “I already have a hotel, so if you’d just drive me back to it -”

“You’re the one who passed out on my couch!” Mac protests. “Twice. In my shirt, with my blanket, so excuse me for making assumptions, dude -”

“Shut up,” Dennis snaps, except...

Except.

He shoots a glance over at the window and watches rain pelt the glass. Thunder rolls out in the dark, louder than before. Closer. For the second time, Dennis imagines his hotel room on a night like this: the thin walls, the weird damp patches on the exterior wall, the shitty mattress and the shittier sheets.

“How many beers have you had?”

“Uh.” Mac blinks, nonplussed. “I don’t... know? I always lose track after five, it’s weird -”

“Then you can’t drive me anywhere,” Dennis cuts in. He makes it sound as angry as he can, keeping his other feelings shoved out of sight; if there’s a chance he's relieved, whatever. It’s none of Mac’s business. “I’m not getting in a car with you at night, in the middle of a storm, when you’re drunk, you’ll get us both killed.”

“I’m not drunk!” Mac protests. “I have a kickass metabolism, I never get drunk off beer. I’m beer immune.”

Dennis frowns.

“That’s called alcoholism, I think,” he says.

“No,” Mac says slowly. “It’s metabolism. I know what words mean, Dennis, I go to the gym.”

“Christ,” Dennis mutters. His headache decides to rear its head again, starting to pulse behind his eyes. He closes them with a wince, trying to get some relief, but it doesn’t help all that much. His body needs sleep, and soon. 

“You know, if you want to stay here,” Mac says, not unkindly, "you could just say that. Instead of dicking around so much.”

“I’m not dicking around,” Dennis snaps. Mac rolls his eyes and walks over to the sink, grabbing a cup off the side. He doesn’t, thank God, give the water to Dennis directly; he just puts it nearby on the countertop instead. Dennis’s skin itches. He doesn’t pick it up.

“One night,” he says, reluctantly. “And you’re driving me back first thing tomorrow.”

“Whatever.” Mac drains his beer and crumples the can before he crosses the kitchen. “Fine. Don’t die on my couch.”  
  
“ _First thing_ , Mac,” Dennis shouts after him. Mac lifts one hand without looking back, middle finger raised, and slams his bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u get two chapters for the price of one! i felt bad posting the prologue by itself when it's so short. see u next week!! xxxx


	3. Chapter 3

_October 15th_

The most pressing problem in his life right now, Dennis decides, is that Mac got hot.

Yes, he’s floundering with no idea where to go. Yes, his twin sister wants him dead. And, yes, the disgusting city air has wreaked havoc on his skin - but those are all problems he knows how to fix. They’re under his control. At the very least, they have the potential to be.

Mac, in comparison, is a straight up liability.

It’s been eight days since his flight landed. Seven since the first night he crashed on Mac’s couch. Staying this long wasn’t intentional, but the bad weather hung around all week and Mac’s always too buzzed to drive by the time he’s finished work - it’s not his fault that he’s stuck here, is the point he's trying to make. Dennis never asked for this to happen.

He always knew, on some level, that the potential existed. Underneath the gangliness, the body spray, and the hair gel stolen from his dad’s dresser, there was always a chance Mac could clean up nice: the problem is that seeing it in the flesh on a regular basis is a surreal punch to the gut. He gets distracted by the stupidest things. Mac’s jawline, the curve of his lashes; the way he always folds his arms if he stands still for more than a minute. It’s incredibly irritating. Mac, as a person, is incredibly irritating, for having the sheer gall to look good when Dennis is trying to resent him.

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Stop it,” he mutters. “Focus.”

Another side effect of Mac’s continued, unwanted presence in his life: he’s falling behind on every possible front.

The applications in front of him have started to blend into one. He’d printed them off at the library the day before, intending to finish them there (if he can’t sort Dee’s life out, he’d figured, he might as well fix his own); but it was 6pm by the time he’d coaxed the wifi into playing ball, and there was no point in doing them at Mac’s apartment, because Mac was in it. The past few hours - 12pm ‘til 7pm, which is apparently Mac’s idea of a work day - were his best shot at making progress. Dennis flicks listlessly through the papers on his lap.

Why does every school need three essays? Writing one would be bad enough, but three is stupid, in his opinion. It’s excessive. Who has that much to say about anything? They have his grades and GPA, they have his student record, why can’t they just - 

“Dude.” A socked foot prods his knee. “Dennis. Can you not have your little bitch freak-out on my couch?”

Dennis jumps. The forms slide onto the floor, splaying out in a heap, and he makes a tight, furious sound.

“What the hell?” he spits. “What the - Jesus _Christ_ , asshole, give a guy some warning -”

Mac scowls at him.

“Not my fault you didn’t hear the door,” he says. “Get off the couch, I’m tired.”

“No.”

“It’s my couch,” Mac argues, kicking his knee again. “C’mon, off. Some of us work for a living, Dennis, quit being a dick.”

“I’m busy,” Dennis says coolly.

Mac’s scowl entrenches itself deeper. His eyes flick from Dennis to the papers on the floor, then back again - he seems to make a decision, flopping down stubbornly on the other side of the cushions and reaching for the remote.

“Fine. So am I.”

“Fine,” Dennis retorts, determined to get the last word, and Mac makes this sneering face at him before commencing with what is apparently a search for the loudest, most obnoxious movie currently airing on daytime television. 

Dennis bites his lip. Hard. 

The longer he stays here, the more he feels unnervingly like he’s living in one of those animal documentaries; the ones he always ends up watching while stoned. They keep circling each other, lashing out without quite breaking skin, and every fight they have - every bad day, every second of tension - feels like it’s pushing them towards a tipping point. The line between dislike and genuine loathing, maybe, or the moment one of them snaps and throws a real punch. Dennis doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where the cliff’s edge is, either. The only thing he can say with any certainty is that he wants to leave before they find it.

He scoops up the forms and neatens the rumpled edges, unfolding all the bent corners. _ADMISSIONS CLOSING - JAN 17_ , the top paper announces. Dennis grimaces, shoving it to the bottom of the stack.

“How’s Dee?” he mutters. Mac glances at him, looking surprised.

“Fine.”

“Mac,” Dennis says. Mac exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“She’s _fine_ ,” he repeats, “she’s… less of a bitch than she was last week. We got brunch, Charlie tagged along. I don’t know what you want me to tell you, dude.”

“I want to know if she’s gonna let me get a word in without going nuclear,” Dennis says. “That’s what I want.”

Mac snorts.

“God, you’re really set on this,” he comments, shifting on the couch so he can stretch his legs and cross them at the ankles. “It is fucking bizarre. You know that, right?”

“She’s my sister,” Dennis says stiffly.

“Yeah, and she was your sister five years ago,” Mac points out. “And last year. But you sure as shit didn’t care this much back then, did you -”

“Can you please,” Dennis snaps, “for the love of God, stop talking about this situation like you understand it, and like it has anything to do with you -”

“I know Dee better than you do.” It’s clearly calculated: Mac knows exactly which buttons he wants to push and how deep he wants the barb to go. “You need to admit it.”

Dennis snorts.

“Mac, I know,” he says. “Of course I goddamn know. What, you think I didn’t account for that?”

“What’s that supposed to -”

“I am _fully aware_ that she chose you over me,” Dennis says, getting louder, “and I know that you hate me! Okay? Dee hates my guts and you hate them by proxy or whatever, I know, I don’t care. I don’t give a shit if Dee likes me or not, I give a shit that she’s stuck here. And I am her brother, and I am going to fix it, because she deserves better than… whatever you three are doing with your lives, exactly. Wasting your savings on a shitty bar.”

Mac watches him idly for a moment. Dennis swallows.

“Are you done?” Mac asks, eventually. “Can I watch the movie, or do you have another soap opera speech wedged up your ass?”

“Fuck you,” Dennis mutters. It’s gonna have to count as the last word, because he shoves the admission forms onto the side table and storms over to the bathroom, making sure the door slams behind him. Mac doesn’t say a thing the whole time; just scoffs, like Dennis is the one being a bitch about this whole situation, and Dennis has to take a second to tilt his head up the ceiling and breathe, unsteady, willing the prickling heat behind his eyes to die down.

He stays there for a long time. He stays until the shower turns cold and for a little while longer, arms folded and head bowed, letting the tension under his skin wash away with the water.

He shouldn’t have expected Mac to understand. The knot between him and Dee is so tightly wound that even Dennis has trouble understanding it, sometimes - of course Mac wouldn’t get it. His emotional capacity doesn’t even come close. Not that it matters, Dennis doesn’t need him. He figured out how to leave by himself. He can solve this problem alone, too.

The world feels steadier by the time he walks into the living room. Mac’s still on the couch, and he glances up when Dennis gets close - Dennis braces for another fight, but instead Mac just sighs, looking tired. He nods at a takeout box waiting on the kitchen table.

“Dinner.”

Dennis’s muscles loosen, just fractionally.

“Thanks,” he says. Mac’s already turned away again.

They eat on opposite ends of the room. Dennis stays standing, leaning back against the counter, while Mac keeps his distance on the couch. He gets up eventually, wiping his hands on his jeans, and they silently switch sides: Dennis sits and watches another shitty movie on TV without really watching it, listening to Mac move quietly around the kitchen. His eyes drift to the forms on the side table, and then his chest lurches, a fresh trickle of dread coming to life - Dennis flips them face down, breathing out. Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. If he can get his fucking head to stay clear.

Behind him, something hits the floor with a thud. 

“Fuck,” Mac mutters, sounding… frustrated? “ _Goddamnit_ , shit -“

Dennis, against his better judgement, twists around in his seat, frowning curiously, and sees -

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making a martini,” Mac says sourly. Or that’s what it sounds like he says, Dennis isn’t sure - he’s kind of distracted by Mac’s shirt, which is clinging to his chest, completely, utterly soaked - and the state of the kitchen table, which is covered in peeled limes, melting ice, and what appears to be, judging by the smell, either rubbing alcohol or cheap tequila.

“Okay,” Dennis says. “Why?”

Mac clears his throat.

“Can you get me a towel?”

“Get one yourself,” Dennis tells him, frowning at the bizarre assortment of bottles on Mac’s kitchen table, wandering closer to get a better look. “ _How_ were you making a martini, exactly? None of this shit is even in a martini.”

“It could be!” Mac says defensively. “It’s - you don’t know that, bro. You don’t know dick about bartending.”

Dennis rolls his eyes.

“I worked at a bar in college,” he corrects, picking the fallen tequila bottle off the floor and examining the label. “I know about bartending. You don’t put tequila in a martini.”

“No, you do,” Mac insists. “You do, you put it in… something. With an M in it. There’s an M in there somewhere -“

“Margarita,” Dennis says.

“Yeah!” Mac clicks his fingers, looking relieved. “Shit. That one.”

The last dregs of tequila splash around in the bottle. Dennis tilts his head back and drains it, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You bought a bar. You opened a bar. You work in said bar, presumably as a bartender, and you have no clue how to make drinks. Is that what this is?”

“No,” Mac mutters. He looks up at Dennis, glaring. Dennis raises his eyebrows and stares right back.

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Then make a margarita.”

Mac’s cheeks flush red.

“Fine,” he snaps. “If that’s what… _fine_ , but you have to stop ribbing me afterwards, okay?”

Dennis lifts his hands, palms up.

“Make the drink and I won’t have anything to rib you for, man.”

Mac scowls at him.

“Swear it.”

“I swear,” Dennis says, dry and long suffering, “that I will stop ribbing you, if you prove you can make a margarita. Happy?”

Mac’s throat works. Then, he grabs a mug - a mug, Jesus - and cracks open a new bottle of the same shitty tequila, filling it halfway, before reaching for a carton of orange juice and unscrewing the cap, and the sight of that is so viscerally painful that Dennis winces.

“Oh, Mac, _no_ ,” he says. “No, come on -”

“I didn’t do anything yet!”

“Yeah, you did several things,” Dennis mutters. “Move over.”

Mac, to his credit, doesn’t argue back. He just shuffles mutinously to one side so Dennis can stand next to him. Dennis relaxes his shoulders, settling himself, not looking at Mac’s chest or his face - this, finally, is something familiar. This is something he knows how to do.

“Glass, first of all,” he instructs, grabbing a flat bottomed tumbler. “No mugs. And you’ll need a shaker, if you don’t have one.”

“Oh.” Mac hums. “Wait, one of those metal things? There’s one at the bar. Charlie’s got flowers in it, though.”

Dennis shuts his eyes.

“Great,” he says. “Whatever - rub the lime on the rim, like this. Then you dip it in the salt. _Lightly_.”

“Is there any actual alcohol in this?”

“I’m getting to that part,” Dennis snaps. Mac huffs, folding his arms, but he stays blissfully quiet for the next minute or so while Dennis pulls the tequila closer and scans the array of bottles in front of him, finding what he needs and settling them nearby. He works quickly - sinking into his usual rhythm, using a coaster to cover the glass so he can shake it - before setting the drink down neatly.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Poor man’s margarita.”

Mac cocks his head at it.

“So… what, it’s a tequila shot with extra steps?” he asks skeptically. “That’s it?”

Dennis doesn’t mean to laugh. It just sort of happens, bubbling out his throat before he has time to squash it.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I guess.”

The back of his neck prickles. He glances over at Mac, then realizes why: Mac’s staring again, lips quirked up. 

“I’d still rather do the shot,” he admits. He grabs the drink before Dennis can, downing half in one go.

“Hey,” Dennis protests, reaching out to snatch it back - Mac just laughs as he takes another sip, waving him off.

“You’re the drinks guy, bro,” he points out. “Make yourself something else.”

Just to spite him, Dennis does: a vague, sloppy approximation of a whiskey sour, with too much lemon and a maraschino cherry. Mac stands there the whole time, watching his hands intently. He’s leaning close enough that Dennis can feel their elbows knock together when he moves.

“You’re good at this.”

Mac sounds more surprised than impressed. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” he says dryly, reaching for the orange juice and some stray vodka he spots hiding at the back. “That tends to happen when you do something for three years. Try this one.”

Mac does. He takes the glass without complaint, obediently tipping his head back. Dennis would look away at this point, usually, but the air’s starting to feel strange. His eyes follow the line of Mac’s neck instead, trailing down his throat all the way to his collarbone. Mac tilts his head back down, meeting Dennis’s eyes as he licks his lips, contemplative.

“Screwdriver?”

“There we go,” Dennis says, knocking him on the shoulder. “See? You’re not completely useless.”

Mac’s grin slides into a laugh. He tilts his head back again with a snort that shouldn’t, under any circumstances, sound attractive at all, taking a second to catch his breath - his cheeks are so pink now, it’s impossible not to look at them. Dennis snatches the glass back from him and downs what’s left, closing his eyes and trying to even his breathing out.

Mac got drunk for the first time at fifteen. Dennis would know, because Dennis was there: him, Mac, Charlie and Dee, the four of them crammed in Charlie’s attic bedroom with the windows open to let the summer heat out. Mac had said, _I’m buying beer today,_ in that proud, conspiratorial voice ubiquitous to being a teenager, and it was the kind of plan that should never have worked but pulled through anyway; because he’d climbed back through the window half an hour later, grinning like an idiot with a plastic bag swinging on his wrist, and been met by a roar of cheers. Dennis remembers two things with painful clarity: how awful the warm beer had tasted and how Mac had looked at him, starfished on his back and watching Dennis quietly with huge, hazy eyes, like the alcohol shook something loose.

They’d still been pretty close at fifteen, hadn’t they? Mac would still come over sometimes to see him, as opposed to Dee; they’d spent Mac’s birthday together, watching the copy of _Alien_ Dennis bought over. They hadn’t fought too much. Nobody had ditched anybody. For better or worse, Dennis had liked Mac at fifteen. Maybe he would’ve liked him at sixteen, too - would have, if it weren’t for -

“Hey,” Mac says, stepping closer and clicking his fingers in Dennis’s face. “C’mon, show me another one.”

Dennis blinks, confused - then wrinkles his nose.

“Get your hands out my -”

“I’m being helpful!”

“Sure you are,” Dennis mutters.

He works haphazardly through a few more drinks. Nothing serious, just the kind of shit he used to make a dime a dozen at Penn State: Mac’s body is a hot, solid line of heat against his side, and it’s making his hands shake, making his measures turn uneven. If Mac gives a shit about the growing mess on the table, he doesn’t mention it.

“Show me how martinis work,” Mac insists, tugging on his sleeve. “Dennis. _Dennis_ , show me how to -”

“Fine,” Dennis says thickly, “I - _yes_ , okay, Jesus. Give me a second.”

Mac mutters something under his breath. It sounds like, “too slow.” He doesn’t let go of Dennis’s wrist, so Dennis works around it, ignoring his heartbeat and walking himself through the steps: gin, vermouth, then ice. Slow and steady, so nothing spills.

“You’d add lemon peel, usually.” He glances sideways at Mac. “At this point.”

“Cool,” Mac murmurs.

Dennis frowns.

“Are you listening to any of this?” he starts - and then Mac leans in and kisses him, slick and clumsy on the center of his mouth, and he stops talking.

It’s a mess, as kisses go. Mac’s body sways closer like a heavy, drunken pendulum; he grabs hold of Dennis’s shirt collar once it’s in reach but he doesn’t push or pull. He’s just clinging, kissing with the sloppy finesse you’d expect from a guy halfway to wasted. Dennis has two thoughts, one after the other. The first is, _this is a terrible idea._ The second is, _holy shit, finally._

“Not the - not near the table,” Dennis mutters against his mouth, pushing him back. Mac makes an impatient sort of noise and keeps crowding Dennis against it anyway; licks into his mouth now it’s open, kissing him again, deeper, slower. He’s so warm like this. It should be irritating, the way he’s shouldered his way into Dennis’s space like he belongs there, but apparently a circuit somewhere has shorted out. Every time Mac pulls away to breathe and presses close again it gets harder to think. He’s got one hand still clenched in Dennis’s collar and the other under his shirt, stroking Dennis’ spine before settling in the small of his back: it makes Dennis shudder, and it makes him regain control of his hands, balled uselessly at his sides, so he can shove Mac backwards.

“I said _away_ from the table, idiot,” he spits, stepping closer again and folding his arms around Mac’s neck. Honestly. Someone has to keep them balanced. “You’re gonna knock shit off.”

“I had it handled,” Mac says. He sounds preoccupied, but Dennis doesn’t get a chance to figure out why before he’s being kissed again. Mac’s a dick about it, naturally: zeroing in on Dennis’s bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth and sliding his tongue over the same spot until it feels like it’s sparking, and he’s got his fucking hands under Dennis’s shirt again, digging into his hips so he can pull him closer. Dennis should take the upper hand, if only to prove he could have it if he wanted, but he can’t figure out how to get there.

“I hate your hair,” Mac mutters, biting Dennis’s lip again. “I hate - it’s stupid, why’d you cut it -”

“It’s not stupid,” Dennis retorts, "you just don’t have taste. Stop getting distracted.”

“Stupid,” Mac repeats, before ducking his head to put his mouth on Dennis’s throat. Dennis exhales, his breath hitching out, one hand flying into Mac’s hair like it’s magnetised - pushing down as Mac sucks a lazy mark between his neck and his collarbone, presses his tongue there, then bites over it again. His hands are still wandering, straying to Dennis’s ass and cupping it over his jeans. Dennis tilts his head back, swallowing a low moan in the back of his throat. He’s getting hard from it - from this, making out in Mac’s tiny shitty kitchen, fully clothed and with the lights still on. Jesus.

“How often do you change your sheets?”

Mac lifts his head from Dennis’s neck and blinks at him - confused, kiss-drunk. Dennis flicks him on the arm.

“Once a week, I guess,” Mac says. His brow furrows. “Probably? I don’t know. Dude, if you want to bang, just say that like a normal person.”

“Don’t say bang.” Dennis flicks him again. “And don’t call me dude.”

“Knock it off,” Mac protests, scowling properly now as he rubs his elbow - which isn’t endearing in the slightest, but is an expression that Dennis wants to kiss off his face, so he does.

For all his posturing, Mac makes a surprised little sound when he realises why Dennis is leaning in. The second it’s over Dennis wants to hear again. He goes in for the kill: tilting Mac’s chin up in one hand, hooking his fingers neatly through Mac’s belt loops. Mac makes the same soft, breathless moan he did before - mid-kiss, more muffled this time. Dennis grins into his mouth. Mac’s staring at him when he pulls away, pupils blown dark.

“You…” he starts, then stops. Dennis’s grin gets wider.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Mac mutters, sounding oddly mulish. He’s inched closer, nosing the hot, sensitive skin of Dennis’s throat again. “Forgot how fucking irritating you are.”

“You’re irritating,” Dennis informs him. “You irritate the shit out of me. Are we doing this or not?”

Mac’s been here before. Dennis can tell from the practised way he crooks his fingers once they’re inside. He’s efficient and he doesn’t talk much, which suits Dennis fine - he prefers when people stay quiet. It makes it easier to stop thinking once things get going. Mac keeps one hand on Dennis’s lower back as he pushes in, and he has the courtesy to wait for Dennis to nod tersely before going any further. When he does, Dennis breathes out, kneeling on all fours with his forearms digging into the mattress, fists curling into the sheets.

He’s relieved that it feels like this. Like it normally does. The awkward, fuzzy mundanity he expects from hooking up drunk. Mac’s grip on his hips is tight and Dennis can hear him breathing heavily in the dark. He’s good at keeping pace with Dennis, at least; thrusting smoothly, in and out.

“This okay?” Mac asks, panting.

“It’s fine,” Dennis mutters. Mac changes the angle on his next thrust in, hitting deeper, and Dennis shudders. He feels one of Mac’s palms ghost briefly up his spine.

“Are you…” Mac says, hesitance seeping in. Dennis cuts him off.

“Do it again.”

It’s still satisfying the second time around; even better, maybe. Mac keeps doing it, keeps pushing forward like that, and bright heat sparks unexpectedly in Dennis’s stomach.

“Come on,” he bites out, “Mac, come _on_ -”

He’s being too careful. Careful isn’t the right word, not really, but Dennis isn’t about to waste time thinking of a better one: there’s just something about the measured way Mac’s doing everything that’s driving him insane. He feels it every time Mac slides home, every time Mac’s fingers trail down his sides. A nerve flares in one of Dennis’s legs, protesting how long he’s been bent over with Mac’s weight on him; it makes him twitch.

“Hey,” Mac murmurs. He’s gone abruptly still behind him, rubbing his thumb in a circle over Dennis’s inner thigh. Dennis’s leg jerks again, and Mac seems to make a decision based on it - he pulls out, and then moves his hands from Dennis’s hips to his thighs, helping ease him down so he’s flat on his stomach, rather than on his knees.

Dennis curls his toes. He swallows and ducks his head to keep his face hidden, eyes closed.

It wasn’t necessary, as gestures go. There’s always some level of discomfort during sex - it’s unavoidable, discomfort is part of the deal - empty gestures aren’t necessary. They don't mean anything. 

Mac doesn’t move for a long minute. Dennis is about to fidget, self consciousness creeping in, when something brushes the skin between his shoulders and makes him go still.

It’s brief. Too brief to really register as anything at all. He thinks maybe it would’ve felt warm, if it lasted longer.

“Mac,” Dennis says. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “You…”

Another one lands half a second later - another, then another - and then Mac molds himself to Dennis’s back without warning, like he’s given into something, kissing quickly and open-mouthed along his shoulder and nosing into his neck, biting down. God, he’s so warm. Dennis’s stomach feels like it’s in freefall; he feels stunned, punch-drunk, like they’re veering off-course. He feels like he needs to be touched properly before he goes insane.

“Up,” he breathes, "you - move up -” and Mac must understand, thank God, because he does, pulling back just enough that Dennis has room to roll over. Mac doesn’t hesitate to kiss him once they’re face to face. He does it eagerly, with his hands curled in Dennis’s hair and his whole body pressed on him, heavy and perfect. His mouth anchors Dennis down every time he licks the place where his lips part and slides his tongue further in.

It’s the slick heat of it, the way Mac knows exactly what to do; the reverential little sounds he makes, so unsteady they have to be unintentional, like this is all he wants. To be here, tilting Dennis’s chin up in both hands and kissing him deeper. He’s done this with other people, clearly, but the urge to pull him in and keep him close is so strong Dennis could choke on it. 

“Mac,” he gets out into the hazy space between them, “Mac, you - _Jesus_ -”

“What do you want?” Mac breathes, pulling back. His pupils are blown and his mouth is pink and bitten, hair all fucked up from Dennis’s hands. He looks dazed. Dennis surges up and kisses him again, his chest inexplicably full. He wants to know what it is, the feeling that’s here in the room with them. What is it? When did it start?

“What do you want?” Mac repeats softly, moving his thumb over Dennis’s mouth. His eyes are transfixed on it. Dennis reaches for him on instinct; holds Mac’s jaw in his palm, watches his eyes slide shut. He can feel Mac’s stubble rasping under his fingers.

Dennis wants to touch him more. He reaches up with both hands this time, sinks his fingers into Mac’s dark hair and pulls - Mac follows him down instantly. He balances his forearms on the sheets by Dennis’s head, letting Dennis’s tongue slide into his mouth with a contented sigh that makes Dennis feel heady and untethered. Mac sounds like he’s been waiting for it; which means it’s like this for him, too. Whatever he’s feeling, Mac can feel it. Mac’s caught up in it, like he is.

Dennis shudders. His hips jolt, which makes Mac groan, pulling away to bury his head in Dennis’s neck and just breathe for a second. Once he’s found whatever it was he needed, he moves on: nosing down Dennis’s throat to his chest, pressing his open mouth to the soft skin there, trailing lower. Heat jumps low in Dennis’s stomach. He figures out Mac’s intention a split-second before it happens but it still catches him by surprise, somehow: Mac licking the nipple closest to him and closing his mouth around it.

Distantly, Dennis hears the choked noise he makes in his throat - Mac must notice too, because he laughs a little. It’s not mean, though. There’s nothing harsh in it. If anything, Dennis wishes there was: there’s just the flickering circles Mac’s tongue makes every time he ducks his head, the lazy way they’re rutting against each other. He cards his fingers restlessly through Mac’s hair, pushing his hips up again and blindly seeking friction. He wants Mac inside again, he wants Mac to be that close. He needs the distance gone. The problem is that Mac doesn’t move; apparently content where he is, with his mouth occupied and distressingly out of reach, grinding down on Dennis in those slow, teasing pulses.

Dennis lets out a dissatisfied sound. He tugs on Mac’s hair. Mac (always an asshole at heart, apparently) huffs out a laugh as he lifts his head dutifully, blinking down at him.

“Hey,” he says. He licks his lips. Something constricts around Dennis’s chest.

“Come back here,” Dennis demands. It’s supposed to sound demanding, at least, but the words get lost and his voice is too thin, so it comes out like a question instead. Mac still knows. He leans over Dennis and kisses him again, and afterwards he runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out his eyes - pointlessly, since it flops right back down straight after.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He’s looking down at Dennis with intent now, tracing over his body like he’s drinking it in. “Yeah, okay.”

It doesn’t click, at first. Not until Mac pulls away and leans back against the bunched up mess of the comforter behind him, legs splayed, lazily thumbing the wet head of his dick in one hand, tracing down to his balls and back up. Dennis is clumsy about it, fumbling as he rushes to sit up and clamber forward, but if Mac notices, he doesn’t care. He’s reaching for him impatiently, getting his hands on Dennis’s wrists as soon as he can and pulling him closer til they’re lying half-upright together, chest to chest, breathing hard. Everywhere they're touching feels fused.

“You got hotter at college, Den,” Mac murmurs. He punctuates it with a peck to the centre of Dennis’s bottom lip. He kisses the same spot again afterwards, but this time he doesn’t pull away, licking into Dennis’s mouth instead; Dennis inhales sharply through his nose, folding his arms around Mac’s neck for balance, to tether himself here in the present.

It was a dangerous thing to say. Mac’s clearly aware of that or he wouldn’t have said it at all. Dennis is half-hard between them, and he starts to rock down as Mac keeps kissing him; tiny, instinctive jolts. It feels stupidly good, lying on him like this. His whole body’s gone lax, spread out with Mac underneath and everywhere, broad and steadying. Dennis fidgets, shifting backwards, until he can feel the head of Mac’s dick smearing wet-hot behind his thighs. He cants his hips pointedly, shoving down on Mac’s stomach to give his cock some relief before rocking back, chasing the tightness in his navel as it coils in on itself. Mac’s saying something, choked - but he only catches the tail end of it, the bitten out, “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” and then the click of a bottle cap.

Mac scrambles upright with Dennis in tow like he’s forgotten how to move, sitting back on his heels so Dennis can stay where he is, propped on his lap. Dennis lets him figure out the logistics and just goes where he’s pushed, arms still around Mac’s neck for balance. He doesn’t know what to do with his legs. Or... speaking truthfully, he knows what he wants, he just doesn’t want to risk it. There are too many live wires exposed already. He couldn’t handle Mac saying no. 

Mac kisses him again. He hitches Dennis up with his free hand as he does, clutching his thigh and stroking the soft skin there, and he doesn’t let the lube warm that long before pressing two slicked fingers over Dennis’s hole. It’s rude, especially since it’s not like this was necessary anyway. Dennis has gone further with less prep than Mac’s giving him. He doesn’t need to do this: work Dennis open again like it’s the first time, slower than before, kissing him whenever his breath catches, kissing him soft and open. It’s stupid of him to do it. They both want the same thing, they have the same goal. It’s stupid that Mac’s so caught up in this, the pointless distraction of making Dennis feel good.

Mac curls his fingers, stroking them over the sweet spot he’s honed in on. Dennis’s arms tighten around his neck. He lifts his hips reflexively, drops back down, breathing so heavily it hurts. He’d be more self conscious about it if Mac didn’t sound the same - if Mac wasn’t panting against his neck like that, kissing the hollow of Dennis’s throat fiercely before burying his face there again. They get pushed against each other every time Dennis moves and he can feel it, how hard Mac is, the minute trembling that says he’s holding himself back from a high ledge.

“I want,” Dennis says, unsteadily. His throat clicks. Mac lifts his head with a questioning noise, slides his fingers out, and Dennis is wound so tight that even that’s enough to make him get loud - Mac tries to kiss him but misses, skimming his cheek instead.

“What?” he murmurs, “what is it, baby, what do you -”

He starts moving like he’s going to lay them both down on the sheets. Dennis digs his fingernails into his shoulders with a low, frustrated noise.

“Like this.” Dennis exhales, eyes closed, and forces himself to finish. “I want it like this.”

“You wanna ride me?” Mac asks. His voice has changed, dipped lower. Dennis can hear his grin.

“Not if you’re gonna be an ass about it, no,” he snaps. Mac snickers.

“Just get on with it,” Dennis mutters, and when he fits their mouths together to shut him up he can feel Mac still laughing anyway, his hot breath skating over Dennis’s chin. Dennis's hands move without his permission: cupping Mac’s cheekbones, thumbs smoothing over them. 

He’s so warm. He kisses back so eagerly. It helps Dennis find his feet again: it always takes a lot out of him, admitting what he wants. There’s the adrenaline rush of finally getting the words out and the intense, painful fear that sparks up in his chest afterwards, flashing like a siren light - _someone is going to laugh at you._ Not because the things he wants are particularly demanding or strange, but because Dennis is the one wanting them. He’s not built for it. Maybe he was at one point, and then the knowledge got lost somewhere, or taken from him; but either way, everyone else seems to navigate this type of honesty effortlessly. It sticks out, the fact that Dennis doesn’t get it. People notice.

This is simple. This makes sense. He moves them into a slower rhythm, tilting Mac’s head up to kiss him better, still cupping his cheeks. He licks into his mouth and savours the heat there. Mac just lets it happen, lets him have what he wants for a long minute; when he fits his hands under Dennis’s thighs and hefts them up, it’s a suggestion, rather than a demand. It’s like he knew, Dennis thinks hazily. Like he knew the whole time. How did he manage that, though? When Dennis never said it?

Crossing his legs around Mac’s back is a warm, steadying thing, just like he thought it would be. Mac lifts him again, and there’s the initial rush of him pressing in, the usual shock of fullness that comes with it - Mac’s breath is hot against his jaw as Dennis sinks down, and Dennis knows how to brace for that, but he doesn’t anticipate the way Mac chases him, darting a trail of insistent, open kisses across Dennis’s jaw until Dennis turns his head and fits their mouths together. Mac starts to move after that, finally, just barely rolling his hips. Dennis would be furious if it didn’t feel so hypnotic. It's like being caught in a tidal pull. Everything is heightened; every sound they’re making, every rustle of the sheets, the feeling of Mac inside. Moving slow enough that Dennis can give into the lazy, heady urge to just let it all build. 

He pulls away, resting his forehead on Mac’s shoulder to catch his breath. When he looks up again Mac’s already looking back. His mouth is parted, slick and pink, and his eyes are fixed on Dennis like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else. Dennis wants to be kissed again but he can’t move, can’t think, and then Mac makes it worse - palms Dennis’s jaw in one hand, thumbing briefly over his mouth. He’s still got that expression on his face. Unreadable, too soft and too full. Dennis has only seen it twice in his life, both times in the past two minutes, and he already knows with bone deep certainty that he doesn’t want to risk giving it a name.

He closes his eyes. It feels safer, after that, to nose further into his palm. He can feel Mac's fingers curl against his cheek. Thank fuck Dennis can’t see him anymore. He doesn’t know if he could stand it. He doesn't know what he’d do.

They’re so far out of bounds now, well beyond the point of turning back - he should care a hell of a lot more, but he doesn’t. It's all Mac's fault.

“You okay?” Mac asks him, right on cue. His voice is low like smoke. He runs his knuckles over Dennis’s ribs, his other hand resting in the small of his back to keep him close; Dennis nods, tightening the grip of his arms around Mac’s neck. He tucks his head into the space between Mac’s collarbone and his throat, putting his mouth on the damp skin there and tasting salt.

Their bodies are still moving together, almost like an after-thought. Dennis keeps his head down and circles deliberately, looking for a sweeter angle - when he finds the right spot he does it again, and again, and Mac’s good about it, doesn’t try to force it, just keeps rocking slowly into him and lets Dennis take. 

“Dennis.”

Mac’s voice is tight, panting but clear, like he’s asking for something. Dennis can’t figure out what until he remembers the reality of what he’s doing, and who he’s doing it with.

“It’s fine,” he says roughly into Mac’s neck, rocking down again, “I’m - it’s good, just keep -”

“Yeah?” Mac murmurs. His fingers are in Dennis’s hair, pulling insistently until he looks up - Dennis doesn’t want to think about it, how blotchy and red his face must be, but Mac either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He’s got one hand behind Dennis’s thighs and the other on his cheek, his jaw, tilting his head up to press their mouths together. They’re too far gone for it to be a kiss, but it’s something similar - grounding, perfect.

“Yes,” Dennis breathes. “You’re not hurting me with your big monster dick, is that what you want to hear?”

Mac laughs. Just a small shuddering thing, but enough to make their position shift. It sends heat flurrying through Dennis’s stomach and he swallows the noise in his throat, panting around it, digging his fingernails into Mac’s back.

“S’good,” he mutters thickly. Mac somehow finds the cognition to kiss him properly, deep and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world - and Dennis wasn’t lying, it doesn’t hurt, but he forgets how intense it can get - even like this, even when it’s slow. It’s more difficult to stay muffled now he can’t put his mouth on Mac’s neck. There are low, breathless sounds tacked on the edges of his breathing now, getting louder; Mac’s still thrusting at the same steady pace, letting Dennis lead him, kissing him clumsily but insistently as Dennis lifts up, drops down.

“C’mere,” he pants, sliding his hand to the base of Dennis’s spine, trying to get him closer, “I wanna touch you, let me -”

Dennis shudders; rocks forward on Mac’s lap, ducks his head into the hollow of his neck again.

“Yeah,” he gets out, his throat closing up, “yeah, yeah, _yes_ -”

Mac’s fingers inch into the scant space between them, curling loosely around his dick. Dennis makes a heavy sound, raw relief flooding through him, and Mac jacks him off like that - his fingers skate over the flushed head every so often, smoothing out the wetness there and coaxing Dennis fully hard. The pleasure’s so fine tuned compared to everything he’s had so far that it reminds him of a pinprick, or the flick of a lighter; Mac’s hand has found a rhythm now, one that sort of fits alongside the rocking of his hips, and it could be perfect. It could be.

Dennis squirms, clawing restlessly at Mac’s shoulders. He wants more, but he doesn’t know how he wants it; Mac knows, though, like he always seems to know. He palms Dennis’s ass in his free hand, encouraging him up, and then uses the extra inches of space to thrust up hard. He’s hitting deeper now, the same angle but better, sending shocks through Dennis’s stomach every fucking time. Dennis is distantly aware of the sounds he’s making, sharp and near-constant, practically snarling - he can feel his nails scrabbling down Mac’s back and digging in, Mac inside him, Mac’s hands on him, shaking as he hauls Dennis even closer - and just like that, Dennis is gone, tumbling from a height.

Mac strokes him through it. He keeps going until Dennis is done, more than done, and then he presses his open mouth on Dennis’s cheek, his jaw, shoving up in these messy, urgent thrusts - Dennis wants to stay here and never leave. He wants to stay where the air is thick and dreamlike, where it’s safe. Where his body makes sense. He grabs Mac’s face with both hands the second he’s steady enough and tugs him into a kiss, his body still humming with static as he leans back on the sheets, sliding his ankle over Mac’s calf and hooking it there.

Mac sees the permission for what it is. He ducks his face into Dennis’s collarbone with a cut-off moan, his thrusts getting sharper, chasing his end point down. The ache is worth it for the rush of warmth when he comes - it's worth it because of the sound Mac makes when it happens and the way he looks down at Dennis after, breathing hard, his eyes so wide. All the air in the room has changed state, somehow. Gone still.

Dennis tilts his chin up. He noses at Mac in the dark. His foot has slipped down from Mac’s leg; he moves it back to the same place again, wanting to keep Mac settled on him the way he is. Mac exhales, resting his forearms on the sheets. He hangs his head between his shoulders, just barely rocking his hips. Dennis lets him ride out the aftershocks like that. He makes a sound when Mac pulls out that he doesn’t really recognise as coming from him - Mac muffles it, kissing him sweet and soft on the mouth and stopping the rest of the world from hearing it, which is a relief. It wasn’t for anyone else to know about.

He doesn’t move away, afterwards. That’s also a relief. Dennis doesn’t want him to. If Mac moves, he’ll get cold, or he’ll start to fidget. Dennis rarely breaks moments like this intentionally, despite what his track record might imply - but so long as Mac stays here, so long as Mac’s close to him, he’ll be...

He’s getting cold anyway, Dennis realises. His thighs are itching. There’s the ugly precursor to an ache building at the base of his spine.

He needs to leave. He should do it now, before this gets any worse.

The more he wakes up from his post-orgasm haze, the more it sinks in. He should walk out; he should jump out the window or hotwire a car. Whatever it takes to get back on familiar ground. At least that way they can end it like a hookup - and then he’ll be able to get past the sinking feeling in his stomach, which is saying they did something else instead. Something different, heavier, with a hazier outline.

“Hey,” Mac says. Dennis’s pulse jumps.

“What?”

“So, can I…” Mac shifts on top of him, licking his lips. “Are you -”

“What is it?” Dennis snaps, losing patience; if Mac wants him gone he can fucking say it, it would make things easier -

“Can I kiss you again?” Mac asks, all in a rush. “I know we… I just want to. That's all.”

He’s staring down at Dennis, chewing his bottom lip. He looks younger like this, his face just barely illuminated from the lights outside. It’s a glimpse of the ages Dennis never saw him at: nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. It’s making his chest go tight and strange.

Dennis reaches up in the dark. He curls his fingers into Mac’s hair, pulls him closer, pulls him down. He stops thinking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! i hope you're safe & well and that the world's been bearable today ♡ feel free 2 chat w me on [tumblr](https://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com) where i am having my fiftieth season five breakdown of the month


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for a brief mention of the f slur and dennis's bastard man thought processes x

_October 16th_

If you’re going to rebuild yourself, start small. Apply to six colleges: three in your state, three out of it, and none in your home city. Collect any acceptance letters undetected. Read them alone with the bedroom door closed but not locked - be cautious, not paranoid. People notice one more than the other. When anyone asks (and they will), be honest. Yes, out of state. No, you’re not sure where. 

The next stage is the one Dennis stumbled at first. _Go as far as possible._ That, in hindsight, was the initial fuck up: moving two hundred miles as opposed to two thousand. He also wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. A key element of Dennis’s life, however, is that when one thing goes wrong, a whole host of other shit comes crashing down too.

(“You said you were staying, Dennis!” Dee had hissed, looking stricken. “We - you _promised_ , you said -”

“We’re not five,” he’d retorted. God, it had been a struggle not to shout. “If I want to go, I can go -”

“So you were just gonna… what, lie to everybody and disappear in September? Is that it?”

They’d fought it out in Dee’s room. It had been even messier than usual, two suitcases propped open on her bed, seventeen years worth of clothes and knickknacks all over the floor. How that didn’t grate on her, Dennis still doesn’t understand; being surrounded by irrefutable evidence of every awkward, embarrassing person she’d ever been - stuffed animals, childhood diaries, questionable prepubescent fashion choices all in view - and not wanting to hide any of it. His own room had been threadbare by that point. It'd still felt suffocating to sleep in.

“Why are you even doing this? You hate school. You literally told me you’re only going for the parties and to piss mom off, so I don’t -“

“I want to,” Dennis had bitten out. “Okay? I want… I can’t stay here. I need a clean start.”

“Without me.”

“Jesus Christ, Dee, you’re not listening -”

“No,” she’d spat, “I’m not. Get out.”

He’d heard her bedroom window creak, ten minutes later. Dennis hadn’t moved - lying on his bed, staring at the wall, listening to Dee’s muffled voice and Mac’s low whispering, a conversation he couldn’t parse. Eventually the window had creaked again, and Dee had left for the night.)

Dennis rolls onto his back, chewing his lip. 

He left. He doesn’t know why, or if it was the right thing to do, but he did it. It was the kind of truth you felt, rather than knew - and the truth dictated that if he wanted to survive, he had to go. There was something wrong. Philly was making it worse. He doesn’t know why he had to leave, and he doesn't know why he came back here, either, if he’s being honest with himself. Dennis doesn’t know much of anything, except he keeps making mistakes.

The sheets rustle. 

“Hey,” Mac murmurs. He’s blinking awake in the dark, pushing himself upright on one hand. There’s a bruise on his throat. I _did that_ , Dennis thinks, eyeing the outline despite himself. Mac’s hair is fucked up, even by his usual standards; stupidly tousled and sticking up at the back. He can remember how it felt under his fingers. He remembers the whole goddamn thing, start to finish, from the moment Mac kissed him up against the table to the minute they fell asleep; the one night he would’ve appreciated blacking out, his body decides to do the opposite.

Dennis swallows. His mouth feels half-dead (his hangover introducing itself, probably) and he wants to say something but he doesn’t know what. It feels like he should say something - a joke, maybe, or something sharper, something to provoke a reaction - in the end, it doesn’t matter, because Mac makes a confused sort of sound and shuffles closer of his own accord, peering down at Dennis like there’s something written on his forehead.

“S’wrong?” he asks sleepily. He’s got pink creases on his cheek from the pillow and an uneven shadow of stubble around his jaw. It’s not a flattering angle to look at him from - it’s the kind of angle you don’t see anyone from, usually. Not unless you wake up next to them.

“Dennis?” Mac says, sounding slightly more awake, and the kiss Dennis gives him has all the usual hallmarks that come from kissing someone in the early hours: it’s dry, brief, a little clumsy. He has to dart up to do it, craning his neck, and their teeth click together when he tilts his head. Mac sighs anyway, relaxing as he moves closer, slides one hand onto Dennis’s hip. He strokes the bare skin there in slow, lazy circles with his thumb, which is… nice. It feels nice.

“Your breath is disgusting,” Dennis mutters. Mac’s body shakes with laughter.

"Screw you, dude,” he says, “so’s yours,” but if he’s got a problem with Dennis flipping them over, slinging one leg across Mac’s hips under the comforter, he doesn’t say a word about it.

It’s easier to kiss him like this. Dennis likes this kind of making out, when it’s not going anywhere fast, and he likes how Mac accepts his weight on top of him without hesitating, meeting Dennis halfway at every step. Dennis’s hands reach for his face and he’s already tilting his chin up; Dennis makes a breathy sort of sound and Mac’s hands are already gripping his thighs, his fingers spreading out to keep him balanced. He keeps making these sounds when Dennis’s nails run down his ribs: high, breathless gasps, bitten-in like he’s trying to hide them. Dennis pulls back, his eyes narrowing.

"Are you ticklish?”

Mac glares up at him.

”No.”

Sitting back on his haunches, Dennis runs one fingertip deliberately down his side. Mac’s foot kicks out as he jolts, half-cursing, half-laughing; Dennis can’t help it, the way he leans down to kiss his mouth, winding his fingers into Mac’s hair and clutching at it. He’s kissing him out of necessity. There’s something stirring in his chest, a weird feeling that tethered itself to Mac last night and refuses to let go - Mac’s still grinning up at him when they break apart again, lazy, uncomplicated, like this is the easiest thing he’s ever done. Like he’s happy here, bracketed in place by Dennis’s thighs.

“Liar,” Dennis accuses, ducking down to brush their noses together. Mac’s breath puffs against his mouth.

“You just caught me off-guard.”

Dennis snorts.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mac informs him, hauling Dennis closer with one arm around his back. Being kissed by him is just a natural evolution of the argument: Mac flicks his tongue into Dennis’s mouth, unbidden, and Dennis’s whole body shudders.

“See?” Mac murmurs. “Like that.”

He does it again. It makes another flicker of heat stir in Dennis’s stomach. He shifts slightly, makes it so he’s less kneeling over Mac and more just laying on him, and Mac sighs. He opens his mouth again and Dennis loses track - in the dark like this, it’s easy to do. Push forward, pull back. Pull Mac’s hair when he wants something, let out a soft sound when he gets it that makes Mac kiss him deeper, more insistently, licking his bottom lip while his hands keep running over his ass, stroking his thighs. Eventually, they’re not even kissing anymore: he’s just nosing down Mac’s jaw because he can, nipping the soft skin of his throat idly, just to see what it gets him. Mac doesn’t push him off. There’s a second where he shuffles around, resettling, and Dennis thinks he’s about to, until he feels an arm slide around him again. Firmer, this time. Slung across Dennis’s lower back.

He’s tired enough that his inhibition lets him try it, and awake enough to worry Mac will realise he’s never done this before. Dennis hesitates before lowering his head - paranoid that he’s too heavy, or too bony, or that he’s going to elbow Mac someplace delicate - but even once he’s settled, Mac doesn’t say anything. He just exhales, long and low. His free hand starts toying with the curls at the nape of Dennis’s neck. 

Pressed against him like this, Dennis can feel the rise and fall of his breathing. Mac must be able to feel him breathing too, by that logic, which sends a fresh curl of embarrassment through his gut, but Mac stays quiet. He doesn’t move his hands. Dennis noses closer, chasing the warmth. One of his legs slips down into the space between Mac’s - and that’s good, that’s more comfortable. Mac’s still scratching his head gently. The room’s still dark. Hazily, sleep creeping in behind his eyes, Dennis reaches across Mac’s chest and puts his fingers on the feather curved over his bicep, following the dim outline. _Did it hurt?_ he wants to say. He thumbs the bottom edge of Mac’s tattoo, settling his cheek on his chest, and lets sleep take over.

He knows it’s morning when he stirs again. It’s so bright that it’s painful, for one thing, and for another his body starts making demands: a stretch, some coffee, and a hot shower. Dennis glances fuzzily at the other side of the bed. It’s messy, unmade, and empty.

Which is... fine. Good, even. It gives them time to reset. Morning-afters are the worst part of a hookup; nobody likes looking their mistakes in the eye, especially not before 11am. There’s a headache beginning to throb behind his temple, and Dennis is about to slide his legs over the side of the bed, preparing to steal a shirt and some Advil, when the bedroom door swings open without warning.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Mac groans. He flops onto the mattress with a thump, face-first. “Goddamnit, dude, I am gonna kill that little old lady down the street. You know how to hide bodies, right? Do they teach that at college?”

Dennis blinks down at him.

“No,” he says. “Why are you killing old women from down the street?”

“Not all of them,” Mac corrects. “Just this one. ‘Cause of her fucking yappy dog that never shuts up, I could hear it the whole time I was showering.”

“Getting rid of the dog would probably be easier,” Dennis points out. “I mean. Hypothetically speaking.”

Mac makes a muffled, affronted sort of sound without lifting his head.

“I am _not_ killing a dog, Dennis.”

“You’re getting water on the sheets,” Dennis mutters, distracted. He feels off-kilter, and this bizarre conversation isn’t helping - Mac’s still sprawled on the bed in front of him, wet from the shower, naked except for the towel around his waist. He yawns as he pushes himself upright, eyes closed. Dennis’s eyes get caught on the faint scratches running down his back. He remembers, unbidden, how it felt to be underneath him - which makes his dick jerk, and makes him feel oddly exposed.

Mac’s watching him. He cocks his head to one side, like he’s thinking something through; meeting his eyes is difficult, but Dennis does it anyway, determined to make a point. Mac huffs out a laugh, looking away and cracking his knuckles.

“I was wondering when that stick in your ass was gonna kick in,” he says mildly. There’s something odd running underneath it, barely detectable. It’s enough to put Dennis on guard.

“Some of us actually have shit to do today,” he retorts. Mac rolls his eyes.

“Dennis, you’re gonna take those stupid forms to some cafe or whatever.” He’s walking over to his dresser now, rummaging through the top drawer. “You’re gonna do jackshit with them, and then you’re gonna come back here, waste the whole evening pestering me about Dee, and tomorrow you’re gonna do the same fucking thing.”

“Shut up,” Dennis snaps. Mac tugs his shirt over his head, and there’s an impassively blank expression on his face afterwards that Dennis hasn’t seen before. It doesn’t suit him. Mac’s tailor-made for exuberance: he’s supposed to be grinning at Dennis, scowling at him, sitting, slouching, flitting between the subtleties in between. He looks weird like this. Too stiff.

What would he do if Dennis kissed him?

Before he has time to cram the impulse down, Dennis already knows exactly what he wants and exactly how he’d do it. He’d cross the floor barefoot and slide his arms around Mac’s neck the way they were a few hours ago, move closer until they were a warm, solid line instead of two separate people. He’d press their mouths together until Mac got with the program, until he kissed back. Maybe they’d have sex, the stumbling, lazy kind you can only have the morning after, that Dennis loves but rarely gets - or maybe they wouldn’t, and they’d lean against the kitchen counter instead, arguing about nothing, drinking the awful instant coffee Mac keeps by the sink.

Dennis wants a lot of things. It’s a bad habit, and one he’s trying to train himself out of. The intensity seems to be non-negotiable: if he wants something, he wants it deeply or not at all. Nothing exists between those extremes (and Dennis would know, because he’s looked), so the compromise he’s fighting for is wanting selectively. If he’s going to set his heart on something - give it a piece of him, and the power to cause hurt - he deserves a say in what it is. Otherwise the risks are too high.

He’s been getting sloppy this year. Wanting the veterinarian thing to hold water, wanting his sister back, and now this: sitting in Mac’s bedroom with a trail of bad decisions in his wake, wanting to do them all over again.

God, he needs to get out of this room. Out the room, out of Mac’s orbit, preferably both. He needs to start thinking straight.

He watches Mac silently, waiting for him to make the next move, but Mac doesn’t look at him once. He pads around the room, towel slung low on his hips. Grimaces as he takes a sip from the stale water bottle on his dresser. His stomach flexes when he does that, and Dennis watches it happen, and he doesn’t move.

He nudges yesterday’s clothes into a pile with his foot and dresses without looking up - what he really wants is a shower, but he’s far too proud to ask - so he suffers through the staleness instead, wincing when he stretches, trying to ignore his headache and the itch under his skin.

“I’m going to the library,” he says stiffly, scrubbing a fist over his eyes. Mac’s on his phone by the window. His only reaction is to nod, once.

“I figured.” His voice has gone toneless. “I’ll be back late, don’t wait up.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Dennis mutters. Mac makes a scoffing, derisive sound when he walks out - and Dennis doesn’t slam the front door behind him, but it’s a close thing.  
  


* * *

  
The library coffee is shit. He drinks it anyway, if only because he needs something lining his stomach before putting meds in it. Everything feels vaguely grimy, from his body to the tabletop, but Dennis pushes those thoughts back. He’s busy. He has shit to do.

It's a gray, drizzly 10am. Over the past hour he’s watched people join the coffee queue in varying states of disarray, categorising them appropriately: the ones who’d clearly used coats and umbrellas, the ones who hadn’t, the students, the business workers, all the loud children and annoying hand-holdy couples. He’s got a good vantage point for people-watching, a corner table all to himself, and a cup of coffee warming his hands. All the factors have fallen into place. The only thing left is for Dennis to actually _focus_.

He feels like he did the first time he had sex. It’s the same creeping, constant suspicion that the evidence is scrawled all over him; like it’s only a matter of time before he’s found out, and someone cross-examines him for details. 

Dennis takes another sip of coffee. He winces at the taste, then flicks disinterestedly to the next page of his application. It’s just as empty as it was the day before, and a week ago, and the first time he saw it, still warm from the printer. The spaces are starting to mock him, at this point. All the answers are in the back of his head somewhere, unformed, scurrying out of sight when he gets too close.

It’s not, he reasons, that he doesn’t want to apply. Of course he does. Dennis wants out and this is his ticket. He didn’t spend four years of his life suffering through a biology major just to quit at the finish line - this was the whole point, right? Getting to the part he actually wanted.

He’s tired, still. That’s all. He’s not in the right frame of mind. Back on campus - away from Mac, away from Dee and Charlie and everyone else - it hadn’t even felt like a question, just a fact of life. Water was wet, people were insufferable, and Dennis was applying to vet school in the fall. Being in Philly is the problem, because Philly is where all of Dennis’s problems are. If he had a moment to think, to remind himself why he’s doing it, he’d be fine. It’s just this city that’s making him… question things. 

Dennis sighs. He’s just about managed to set his eyes on the page and focus on it when the cheap ballpoint in his hand jolts, cracks, and slips out of his grip.

Ink splatters across the table. Dark blots of it immediately soak through the paper in front of him, muddling the words and the print into one - Dennis watches in blank shock, and he can physically feel something snap.

"Goddamnit,” he mutters. Then, louder: "God _damnit_.”

“Sir?” a waiter prompts. He’s paused a few tables over, glancing at Dennis, his hands full of empty cups. Dennis snarls at him wordlessly, grabbing his things.

“Do you -”

"I’m fine,” Dennis snaps. He stumbles into the table as he stands up. Coffee drips onto his sweater.

“Bathroom’s over there,” the waiter says, jerking his thumb down the hall. His face says, _thin ice._ Dennis hefts his bag into his arms, pointedly ignoring him, and waits for the waiter to disappear before making a beeline for the door. He drops his bag and slams it shut, thunking his head back against the wood with a groan.

It’s like he had two mornings. There was the first one, so sleep tinged and hazy he might’ve dreamed it, and then the second. He'd pay good money to think about something else, but this is all his brain has to offer: a detailed play-by-play of everything that happened between 10pm and 8am, with all his mistakes neatly displayed in a bullet point list. 

He has two problems, he decides, stepping closer to the mirror and fixing a smudge of concealer with his thumbnail. First of all, and most glaringly, he doesn’t have the upper hand. If Mac had the home advantage before, now he has it ten times over - one wrong move and Dennis could lose the only vague asset he has in all this. His only hope is somehow, between this minute and Mac coming back from work, finding a bargaining chip to use as leverage.

Second: Dennis has had enough casual sex to know what it feels like. They crossed a line last night. Into what, exactly, he’s not sure.

There’s a mark showing on his throat; not dark enough for a bruise, just a faint circle of reddened skin. Dennis goes still for a moment, looking. He pushes down on it with two fingers, aware of the warmth pulsing underneath.

Mac’s always had a talent for pissing him off. He’s been this way right from the very beginning: even in high school, spottier and scrawnier than they are now, Dennis was furious with him more often than not. Angry that Mac never listened, that he’d stolen Dee’s attention so efficiently - and angry, too, that Mac preferred Dee over him, when they… when they'd worked so well together. He was Dennis’s friend first. Everybody else seems to have forgotten that, Mac included.

It would’ve been easier if he’d ripped the band-aid off in one. Dennis is aware he must’ve done something to deserve this much loathing, but he can’t figure out what - and it’s not like Mac would ever tell him, even when Dennis pushed for details, even when Dennis pushed him against walls and hissed at him to _say something,_ asshole, come on. Things got unbearable, the last few months before Penn State. Those were the days Mac wouldn’t go near him, sneering if Dennis so much as called him out on it, he was a firework loose in a crowded room; Dennis hadn’t seen much of him that summer, he’d been dating Heather Corvelli for most of it, but he knows it was the first time Mac got arrested for real, the first time he’d heard him and Dee fighting through the walls. The vicious impulsivity seems to have settled, but Dennis, apparently, is still worth hating. Or… resenting. Whatever it was Mac felt back then, he’s still feeling it. And he’d still rather make it Dennis’s problem than bother to explain.

Dennis pushes down on the mark again. It fades under the pressure but blooms once his fingers are gone, looking redder. Just faintly.

The stall at the very end of the bathroom creaks. Dennis’s spine snaps straight, his heart thudding -

Charlie’s yawning as he stumbles out. He doesn’t seem to notice Dennis until he’s barely five feet away. Once he does, he stops, cocking his head like he’s having a dream and Dennis just walked into it.

“Huh,” he says slowly. “Hey, man.”

Dennis clears his throat.

“Hey, Charlie.”

Charlie jams his hands in his pocket, rocking back on his heels.

“So… what’re you doing in here?”

“Working,” Dennis says, too fast. He winces. “On, uh. College shit.”

Charlie nods.

“College shit,” he echoes. “Cool.”

There’s a long pause. Dennis clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck.

“How about you, buddy?”

“Me? I'm hiding.” Charlie shrugs, non-committal, wiggling one hand around. “Yeah. Mac was being all irritating and shit at the bar, you know? So I ditched him, then I came in here to sleep a little bit, get out the rain -”

“Mac’s always irritating,” Dennis mutters, fiddling with his sleeves. Charlie nods.

“Well,” he agrees, “yeah, but I mean _really_ irritating, dude. Like, following me around, wouldn’t stop talking, it was awful. I had to get out. He’s been in a bitch of mood for months over this roommate thing.”

Dennis freezes.

“Roommate thing,” he repeats.

“The roommate thing!” Charlie nods again. His eyes have gone fervently wide. "It’s all he ever talks about nowadays, bro, I swear to God. I kinda want to kill him.”

“Charlie,” Dennis says, slowly. “Let's get lunch.”

* * *

Everybody needs something, whether they admit it or not. The waitress who judged them for ordering alcohol, for example, needs a therapist. Dennis needs a facial and more sleep. Mac, if Charlie’s intel is correct, needs an extra two hundred dollars of rent per month. He also needs someone willing to pay it for him.

It’s taken two hours and a shitton of sangria, but Dennis has his bargaining chip.

“So if he’s been looking since you moved out,” Dennis says, slightly bewildered, “that’s… what, over a year? How the hell has he not found one half-decent guy in the whole of Philly?”

“Dennis,” Charlie says forlornly, shaking his head. “Dude. That’s the thing. He’s found, like, a hundred, he’s just such a bitch to live with that they all bail in a week.”

Dennis wrinkles his nose.

“How is he a bitch to live with?”

True, Mac’s got some quirks (swords in cupboards, bad taste in movies, hates his guts, etcetera), but at least he’s clean. He’s not overly loud or eerily quiet like a serial killer. Dennis has had way worse roommates before.

Charlie’s eyebrows shoot skyward.

“He micromanages the shit out of everything! He’s a control freak! Plus, he always used to do his weird workouts in the kitchen when I was hungover.”

The micromanagement is annoying as shit, granted, but Dennis doesn’t actually mind the fitness regime. It’s not like there’s ever anything interesting to do at 8am, and Mac has… adequate abs. Dennis has eyes. It’s only natural.

“- And the first year we lived together? We had one inch of snow, okay, for like three days - he wouldn’t let me out my own apartment unless I put gloves on. Who _does_ that, y’know? and it’s one thing with me, ‘cause we’re blood brothers and shit, but some random dude off Craigslist isn’t gonna put up with that. He’s gonna be sensible and get a restraining order and move out.”

“Forgetting gloves does suck, though,” Dennis points out. He should get a new pair before the cold weather rolls in - his cuticles still haven’t forgiven him for losing them last year. Christ knows what they’ll do if he leaves them exposed in a Philly winter.

“So it’s like…” Charlie makes a wide, frustrated hand gesture, knocking into the pitcher and making it tremble. “I love the guy, whatever, but he’s gonna lose the apartment if he doesn’t stop, dude. For real.”

Dennis shakes his head. He takes a bracing sip of sangria, willing himself to focus: here’s his moment. Time to lay his cards down.

“I can talk to him, if you want,” he says, clapping a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “See what I can do.”

Charlie frowns. 

“...You sure?”

"I think you deserve a break, Charlie,” Dennis tells him, not entirely dishonest - and that makes Charlie let out a long, relieved sigh.

“Yeah.” He drains his glass, then snags Dennis’s and finishes that too. “Yeah, you’re right. _Shit_ , Mac is such a bitch.”

“That he is,” Dennis agrees. “You ready to go, man?”

Charlie nods, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Sure,” he says. “Wanna head to the bar?”

It's still raining outside. Dennis still feels like something half-dead that was recently hit by a large truck, but he’s clinging to the spark of hope in his chest: there’s a way to fix this, if he plays his cards right. With any luck, he can spin this situation in his favour. He spends the walk over mentally preparing to see Mac’s face, hear his voice in daylight. Ideally, he would’ve take a minute before heading inside to sort out his script, but Charlie decides to push the door open without hesitating -

And there’s Mac, on his phone by the register, looking the same way he always does. There’s nothing about him that gives away what he did last night, or with whom. He’s wearing one of his shitty slogan tees and no jacket, apparently unbothered by the rain. _RIOT_ , it announces, in bold block letters. Dennis’s stomach jumps stupidly.

“Hey, dude.”

Charlie offers Mac a high five before settling on one of the taped-up stools, leaning forward to grab a beer. Mac doesn’t look up as he says, absently, “hey, Charlie,” - and Dennis can pinpoint the exact second his expression changes, the moment Mac’s eyes find him and go wide.

Dennis clears his throat.

“Get me a beer?”

“Get one yourself,” Mac retorts. He pushes a bottle across the counter anyway. “What happened to no drinks before happy hour?”

“Charlie happened,” Dennis mutters. Mac grins, leaning back against the wall. It’s infuriating, and it makes his stomach lurch again.

“You told me I could order whatever I want!” 

Charlie’s voice has gone indignant. Dennis rolls his eyes, reaching over to pat him on the back.

“I’m kidding, dude,” he promises. “The sangria was a great shout. Honestly.”

Charlie brightens.

“You think?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Dennis confirms - and then Mac, as usual, decides to ruin the moment.

“You got brunch without me?”

“Sure did, buddy,” Charlie says. He takes a prim sip of beer.

“With _him?_ ”

“Hey,” Dennis protests, scowling, “I’m right here -”

“Free booze is free booze!”

“It’s a bribe,” Mac says flatly. “If it’s Dennis, it’s always a bribe. Come on.”

Dennis swallows around the sour taste in his mouth. He clears his throat again.

“Actually,” he drawls, sipping his beer to build up some courage, “Charlie and I had a very interesting conversation, I’ll have you know.”

Mac’s brow furrows. He pushes himself off the wall, stepping closer.

“Yeah?” 

Before Dennis can get further than that, the bar’s front door creaks on its hinges. He looks over, and abruptly feels like someone’s cracked his ribs open and poured ice inside.

“Dee,” he stutters out. Dee walks straight past him.

“You,” she accuses, pointing at Mac as she stalks behind the bar. “I’ve been looking all over for you, where the shit have you been?”

“Around,” Mac says. He lets her snag the bottle in his hand without complaint, kicking lazily at her ankles when she gets close enough. “Why?”

“We’re dyeing my hair today,” Dee informs him. Mac’s eyes go wide.

“You serious?”

Dee rattles the carrier bag in her free hand meaningfully.

“Would I have bothered talking to that smug bitch at the salon if I wasn’t?”

“Well how about that,” Mac muses, sounding thoughtful. He takes the beer back and drains it. “Sweet Dee grew some balls after all. Only took you six months.”

“Five,” Dee corrects icily, “and it’s not my fault that I actually _think_ before I do something, unlike some people -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mac says, his cheeks darkening. “Whatever.”

He glances at Dennis; the kind of quick, involuntary glance that always happens when someone has something to hide. Christ, Mac’s a terrible liar. All Dee would have to do is ask, and he’d spill the whole story bare on the floor. 

“Come on,” Dee insists, grabbing his arm and tugging on it. “Let’s go already, I want this done before lunch.”

“Yeah, and I want another drink,” Mac says, scowling. “Jesus, Dee, quit dragging me -”

“There’s beer at my place,” Dee informs him, still pulling him along. Mac stumbles into her - accidentally or on purpose, Dennis can’t tell - and Dee trips across the threshold with a sound that’s half furious, half-laugh, and she says, "you _dick_ -” and then they’re gone, the rest of her sentence lost as the door slams shut behind them.

Silence slinks in to fill the empty space. Dennis sits still. He listens to the low roar of cars passing on the street outside, the hum of the ceiling lights. He taps his fingers on the sticky surface of the bar, and then he thinks, _fuck it,_ and neatly swings himself over it so he can examine the dusty bottles lined up on the back wall.

Their selection isn’t actually half-bad. Granted, it’s sporadic - as if someone had ordered everything they liked, rather than everything you need to stock a functioning bar - but it’s not hopeless. There’s potential here. Sort of.

“Hey, Charlie,” Dennis calls over his shoulder. “You mind if I organise these?”

“Knock yourself out,” Charlie mumbles. His voice sounds muffled, and it doesn’t take long for Dennis to figure out why: he’s curled up in a booth, cat-like, with his green army jacket pulled firmly over his head. Dennis raises an eyebrow.

“Thanks,” he says, slowly. Charlie makes a snuffling sound, then rolls over.

Pushing Mac to the back of his mind is, as he’d hoped, easier with a job to do. This is the kind of mindless shit he used to waste half a shift on when things got quiet at the college bar - he’s just getting into it, humming Stevie Nicks under his breath as he goes, when he hears the door creak open.

Dennis whirls around, heart in his mouth; but the guy squinting at a faded poster on the wall is decidedly not Mac. He’s about fifty years too old, for starters, and he’s got the kind of huge, bushy beard that Mac’s stubble probably has wet dreams about.

“Bourbon,” he grunts, glancing at Dennis.

“Nuh uh,” Charlie calls from his corner - sitting up again, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, dude. You’re shit out of luck.”

Dennis starts to frown.

“Excuse me?”

“I don't know how to make that!” Charlie protests. He’s whispering, bizarrely, as if that’s somehow going to stop the bearded guy from hearing them. Dennis’s frown deepens. “I don’t know what that shit even is -”

“Christ,” Dennis mutters. He takes three slow breaths, staring resolutely at the ceiling.

He finds a bottle in record time, pours two fingers into a (mostly) clean glass, and pushes it across the countertop. The guy takes it without hesitating, swigging back half in one go. He must like it, even if he looks like a walking wanted poster, because he hands Dennis a tip that he’s more than happy to pocket, rather than waste in the empty jar that’s gathering dust in a corner.

“Sweet, dude,” Charlie says, surprised. “So you know how to make drinks and shit, huh?”

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Did the three of you,” he says, “seriously decide to open a goddamn bar with zero actual bartending experience between you? Is that what happened here?”

“Well, Dee can open beers super quick,” Charlie offers. “And Mac can pour shots.”

“Right,” Dennis says. “And you…”

Charlie shrugs.

“I’m the vibe guy,” he clarifies. “I handle the vibe. And, y’know, I clean the toilets and stuff, keep the rats from getting out the basement. That type of thing.”

Dennis’s first question is, _there’s a basement?_ His second (more urgent) question is, _there are rats in the basement?_ But before he can ask either of them, another customer stumbles through the door and towards the bar.

The thing about bartending is that somehow, despite spending three years on a zero hour contract, he doesn’t entirely hate it. It’s fun, and he gets a kick out of the showmanship - and he really likes the part where Charlie (infinitely grateful, apparently, that he gets to stay nestled in his booth) gives him free reign over the beer selection. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t realize Mac’s back in the bar at all until he turns around on his heel, a dishrag in one hand, and narrowly avoids crashing straight into him.

“Jesus,” Dennis breathes, stumbling back a step. “What the hell, moron, you scared the shit out of me!”

“Are you... working?”

Mac’s staring at him, mouth agape. He sounds half-irritated, half-surprised.

“Yes,” Dennis says frostily. “Someone has to, since you three evidently don’t give a shit -”

“Charlie’s here,” Mac protests with a scowl. Dennis rolls his eyes.

“Charlie’s passed out in the booth by the door.”

“Motherfucker,” Mac mutters. Dennis nudges past him and steps closer to the trash can, trying to keep his breathing steady as he wrings the washcloth out over it. He focuses on folding it into the neatest, smallest square he possibly can.

“Where’s Dee?” he asks, keeping his eyes averted. Behind him, he hears Mac sigh.

“Dye job was a bust. She wanted platinum but we must’ve fucked the bleach up or something, I don’t know. Artemis has gone over to fix it.”

“She’s already blonde,” Dennis says, frowning. Turning around feels marginally less risky now his blood pressure is under control, so he decides to try it. “Who’s Artemis?”

“Some chick from Dee’s acting group,” Mac says absently. “And I know! That’s what I said, dude.”

Dennis’s lips twitch. He wants to smile (or his mouth does, at least), but he keeps it under control by stepping back again and clearing his throat. 

“Charlie says you’re looking for a roommate.”

Mac’s head jerks up. He stares at Dennis for a long second.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he says, slowly. “But yeah. Why?”

“It’s going to be me,” Dennis says.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Mac’s backing away now, pointing a finger at him - it would be funny, if it wasn’t making Dennis’s stomach twist. “No way, dude -”

“Why not? I have savings, I can cover the difference in rent, I’m tidy, I’m quiet -”

“You’re _quiet?_ ”

“I can be quiet,” Dennis grits out. “I can be a very quiet, respectful roommate, which is why you’re going to -”

“I’m not doing shit, Dennis!”

“I just covered your shift,” Dennis says, crossing his arms. “I did it better than you, I made money for you, and I did it for free. And now I’m saying I will cover your rent, sixty-forty, for the next three months. No catch.”

He watches, satisfaction curling hot in his stomach, as Mac’s throat works up and down. Mac opens his mouth, scowling, then closes it. The scowl fades out into something more complicated.

“If,” he says, dragging a hand over his face. “ _If_ I agreed to this shit, which is a big fuckin’ if, by the way - what would you get out of it?”

Dennis shrugs.

“A place to crash while I work on Dee.”

“And that’s it?” Mac presses. He’s watching Dennis warily, arms folded. The stupid feather tattoo is on full view from this angle. “That’s all you want?”

Dennis swallows.

“That’s all I want,” he says.

There’s a short silence.

“Seventy-thirty,” Mac mutters. “And I get first dibs on hot water.”

They don’t shake on it. Dennis pours them both a shot of rum and Mac knocks his back without flinching, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“You are one persistent son of a bitch, dude,” he says, shaking his head. Dennis narrows his eyes.

“Your point being?”

“Thought you would’ve given up by now, is all.” Mac shrugs, reaching over and snagging Dennis’s shot too. “On the Dee thing.”

“We’ve been through this,” Dennis says, irritated, “she’s my _sister_ , I’m not -”

“You don’t want her to die pathetic and alone in Paddy’s or whatever, yeah, I know. I meant I wasn’t expecting you to last this long.”

Dennis cocks his head.

“Me neither,” he admits. That makes Mac arch his eyebrows as he tips back the shot glass, and Dennis looks down at the floor.

“Hey -I said, are you open or what?”

“Not to shitheads like you, no,” Mac says, glancing up to scowl at the guy in front of them. “Wait your turn or move along. We’re making a business deal.”

The man does, surprisingly, move along. He mutters something under his breath as he does, though - a word that Dennis has heard before, and is resigned to hearing again, that despite his best efforts makes him flinch every time - and the tense, heavy paranoia from that morning resurrects itself in the pit of his stomach.

“Dick,” Mac mutters.

He doesn’t look ashamed. Mostly he just looks annoyed; like it was an inconvenience more than anything else. Dennis wonders how many times Mac’s heard it, to desensitise himself that much, and then he carefully stops that train of thought before it can derail and spiral down.

“You ok?”

Mac’s looking at him, he realizes. Waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” he says stiffly. If Mac hears the lie, he doesn’t mention it - he just rolls his shoulders, stretching lazy and slow like a house cat, and yawns.

“C’mon,” he says, reaching out to prod Dennis in the ribs. “Let’s go already, dude. I’m fucking beat.”

Dennis frowns at him.

“The bar’s still open.”

“So what?” Mac grabs a leather jacket from somewhere behind him, tugging it on. “Charlie’s here. Dee will probably show up.”

“She’ll probably show up,” Dennis echoes. Mac nods.

“Yeah. Unless she’s, y’know. Busy, bored, out getting laid, whatever.”

“Charlie is asleep,” Dennis says. “He’s - he is _literally_ -”

“Oh my god, dude,” Mac says, exasperated. “I thought you said you worked at a bar before?”

“I did work at a bar!” Dennis hisses. “Which is precisely why I know that this isn’t how bars work, Mac - ”

“Well, you must’ve worked at a shitty one,” Mac says. “Do you want a ride home or not?”

They manage, somehow, to miss the rush hour. It only takes them twenty minutes or so to pull up on the sidewalk outside Mac’s building. Mac wastes five on parking, and another ten fighting for his right to the first shower - which he eventually loses, on the condition that he gets to pick the movie they watch over takeout - and then, finally, Dennis gets the bathroom to himself and washes day old sweat out his hair, letting hot water thump down his back the way he’s been dreaming about since dawn.

“If you’re staying here,” Mac announces, the second Dennis emerges from his steamy cocoon, "you are gonna watch Independence Day. I’m not rooming with a guy who hasn’t seen Independence Day.”

Dennis narrows his eyes.

“No.”

“Uh, yes,” Mac says. “House rules, bitch. We shook on it.”

“We shook on _a_ movie,” Dennis argues, “not that movie. Pick a different one.”

A stack of delivery menus hits him squarely in the forehead.

Independence Day, as Dennis suspected it would be, is awful. Maybe the movie by itself wouldn’t be so bad, but Mac quotes each line reverently as it happens, and he pauses every five seconds to make sure Dennis caught some bizarre detail (rewinding when Dennis misses any of them, much to Dennis’s chagrin) - and then, to add insult to injury, he falls asleep barely ten minutes before the credits roll. Will Smith saves the world just in the nick of time. Mac misses the whole goddamn thing. He’s slumped limply on the couch, taking up most of it, and his mouth’s gone slack as he dozes.

Mac’s so often graceless. He doesn’t seem to notice, let alone care - but occasionally, when he’s glancing at someone, or grinning, or tapping his long fingers on a table - everything will line up, just for a moment. Nobody’s supposed to be attractive when they’re passed out on a couch, for example. It happens unconsciously and effortlessly, without Mac realizing. Even in his sleep, he gets on Dennis’s nerves.

Dennis considers letting a little of his irritation out; flicking Mac awake and telling him to move, so he can pull the futon out and go to bed, but then Mac shuffles in his sleep, mumbling something. His head lolls to one side. Dennis finds himself face to face, just briefly, with the dark bruise on his neck. He stares at it for a split-second until Mac yawns, wide and cat-like, scrunching his face up like he doesn’t give a shit that Dennis can see. Knowing him ,he probably doesn’t.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, squinting at the TV. “S’that the end?”

“You missed the end,” Dennis tells him - which was the exact wrong thing to say, because it makes Mac’s eyes fly open as he sits up, scrabbling for the remote.

“Dude! You let me miss the ending?”

“You’ve seen this movie before,” Dennis argues, “ _multiple_ times, you do not - Christ, just get up, you’re elbowing me -”

“We’re rewatching it,” Mac says stubbornly. He makes a triumphant noise, one hand shoved down behind the couch cushions, and then he rewinds through the credits and the final battle until Will Smith hasn’t saved the world at all; and Dennis shuts his eyes, counting down from ten, willing himself not to commit murder or look at the mark on Mac’s throat.

* * *

_  
October 23rd_

His second year at Penn State, Dennis was roommates with a guy named Jason. He was overwhelmingly average in every respect except for two: he figured out Dennis was gay before Dennis did, and he persuaded Dennis to become a morning person.

Persuaded, to be fair, is a strong word. He’d leave at 6:30 every day to catch the 6:45 bus, and their shower’s high pitched whine always woke Dennis up. He could never sleep right afterwards, tossing uneasily and fucking up his fitted sheets, so eventually he just stopped trying - Jason had been a crappy roommate and an entry level kisser, but at least in the present day Dennis knows how to function before 10am.

Mac, evidently, does not.

“...What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast,” Dennis replies, glancing over his shoulder. He’s feeling bright and chipper as his second coffee kicks in. Mac winces, wavering on his feet and squinting in the light. “Why does a dick like you have a blender like this, by the way?”

“Spa boyfriend,” Mac says blearily. “Dude, it’s 7am.”

“I’m aware.” Dennis rolls his eyes and divides the blender’s contents between the clean glasses he found hidden in a cupboard. It’s very green, he realizes - but hey. That’s probably a good sign. “Getting up early is good for you, Mac, I saw it in a documentary. Drink the goddamn juice before you get scurvy.”

Mac stalks forward, muttering to himself. He snatches a glass and retreats in a zombie-like shuffle to the safety of the couch. Dennis rolls his eyes.

Living with Mac full-time is a constant stream of small, bizarre surprises. He owns pretty much every infomercial product Dennis has ever heard of, and several that he hasn’t. There are three different tubs of protein powder on the counter, all open, but Dennis has never seen him eat or buy a vegetable. Mac is fastidiously clean, but has no problem keeping food until it’s growing fur; when he isn’t working he’ll happily stay in bed past noon, and when he is working, he sometimes doesn’t stumble home until sunrise, waking Dennis up from his uneasy sleep on the couch by banging into doors and cursing at them. How he’s survived living alone for this long, Dennis has no idea.

Sometime in the next two hours, between Dennis showering and finishing his skin routine, Mac leaves for work. He’s gone by the time Dennis steps back into the living room, his keys missing from their usual place on the counter - and the smoothie, Dennis notes, with no small amount of satisfaction, is also gone.

The smart thing to do would be taking advantage of the quiet. Dennis glances at the application forms, crumpled and ink stained, shoved in the same bag from yesterday. He walks past them decisively, pulling on his shoes.

Tonight, he decides, tying the laces. He’ll look them over tonight, after close. It’s not that he likes going to the bar - it’s an awful bar, objectively - but he feels a responsibility, as a bartending professional and a generous, thoughtful person, to do a little damage control. Someone should, once in a while.

For the first time that week, it doesn’t rain on the walk to Paddy’s. Dennis has his hand on the door handle, about to turn it, when -

Mac’s voice. He’s saying something insistently, just on the cusp of too low to be heard. Dee cuts him off. Whatever she replies with just eggs Mac on more: he gets louder and more emphatic, until Charlie pipes up with a plaintive, “he’s not that bad, come on -”

“He eats _spinach_ ,” Mac hisses.

“I eat spinach,” Dee points out. “Lots of people eat it.”

“He blended it and drank it out my Phillies flask.”

There’s a short silence.

“You mean, like.” Charlie sounds slow and hesitant. “As a meal?”

There’s a strained silence.

“Spinach is a great source of antioxidants, actually,” Dennis cuts in, throwing caution to the wind and pushing the door open. He keeps his voice as light as he can - he meets Mac’s eyes, testing the waters, and Mac looks away first. His cheeks look red, maybe. It’s probably just the light. The three of them are huddled in the same booth Charlie was dozing in the night before; there’s enough space for them to spread out, if they wanted, but instead they’re all crammed in the same corner. It’s irritating, for reasons Dennis can’t parse.

“Okay, why is he here?” Dee demands, pointing at Dennis. “First he’s in your apartment, now he’s in the bar? I thought we all agreed on the silent treatment.”

“Dee, I can explain,” Mac says, as if any sentence that starts that way has ever ended well - Dennis clears his throat, pushing the panic out of it, and takes another step forward.

“Mac needed a roommate for a few months. I needed a place to crash for a few months. So...”

“You’re kidding me,” Dee says flatly. 

Mac swallows with an audible click, sliding out the booth.

“Dee -”

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Dee seethes, rounding on him. “What the hell, asshole? Why the shit would you -”

“You know the landlord guy’s been up my ass about rent!” Mac protests. “And he - look, Dennis said he’d cover -”

“So he’s bribing you.” Dee nods to herself with a dark, mutinous expression. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m paying an agreed-upon portion of his rent for three months,” Dennis informs her, with forced, teeth-gritted calm. “And then I’ll be back out of your life by New Year, since you clearly don’t want me in it at all, okay?”

“That’s not what I...” 

Dee trails off. She glances at Dennis, looking him up and down, like she’s just spotted him in a crowded room.

Watching her was always his secret weapon when they were kids - if Dee was lying, if she was happy or pissed or had something to hide, he could see it on her face without trying. Whatever she’s thinking right now, though, Dennis can’t see it. He might as well be looking at static.

“So if you’re paying his rent,” Charlie pipes up, sounding skeptical. “Does that make Mac, like. The trophy roommate? Or are you the trophy roommate, cus you don’t work?”

“Nobody is the trophy roommate,” Dennis cuts in, relieved to have a distraction. “Nobody is doing that.”

“Yeah,” Mac agrees. “I mean, if one of us was, obviously it would be Dennis, because I am tougher and clearly the breadwinner, but -“

“Excuse me?”

Mac glances at him, frowning.

“What?”

“I’m practically a veterinarian, asshole,” Dennis points out. “I’d be the breadwinner, you’d be the trophy roommate, in this scenario.”

“Brain smarts and body smarts are different.” Mac waves a dismissive hand around in the air. “Way different, dude. You need body smarts to be a breadwinner.”

“And you don’t have any of those,” Dennis says evenly, “so you are shit out of luck, and you are the trophy roommate. Case closed.”

“I have body smarts!” Mac protests. “I have - I have tonnes of body smarts, Dennis, I have way more than you -”

“Oh, clearly, judging by the amount of Domino's you demolish at 2am -”

“There’s nothing wrong with pizza as a stomach settler,” Mac snaps. “You’re just jealous and you know it -”

“Oh my god, shut up!” Charlie’s voice has gone very shrill. “Shut up and forget it already, Jesus Christ. You’re making me age.”

Mac glares at him. Dennis folds his arms and glares back. 

“Dennis,” Dee says abruptly, getting to her feet. “You and me, back office. Now.”

The world freezes and thaws in the same instant. Dennis’s eyes snap over to Dee, his mouth is working in a way that feels very stupid and impossible to stop. There’s hope in his throat, blocking it, and something cold and heavy is constricting him in a vice at the same time.

He should’ve prepared for this. He should’ve worked out a script or something; should’ve predicted that Dee would catch him alone, eventually. Dennis follows her, tripping on a floorboard as he hurries to catch up. His pulse skitters again when Dee shuts the office door behind them.

“Okay,” she says, sounding dangerously even. “You and Mac. What’s going on?”

Dennis’s brow furrows. Surprise hits him first, in a brief wave that makes his stomach jump, and alarm rushes in half a second later; taking over his limbs, making them weightless, clawing its way behind his ribs. _Shit_ , she knows, she knows that he - that they -

Did Mac tell her? He wouldn’t have, surely. He wouldn’t want to get her furious like that. Unless, Dennis realizes, with a sharp stab of adrenaline, unless Mac slept with him as a means to an end. A test, maybe; a way to prove that Dennis couldn’t be trusted. They’re both in on it, they’re trying to humiliate him. This was all a joke with him at the center - they’ve probably been laughing at him all week.

“Nothing’s going on.” Dennis clenches his fists, hard, trying to ground himself in it. He takes a shallow, shaky breath. “Nothing is going on,” he repeats firmly. “It’s exactly what we told you, I’m crashing with Mac for a few months while I figure things out. That’s it.”

“Sure,” Dee says. She drags the middle of the word out.

Dennis still can’t tell if she knows. If she does, she’s not giving it away - but she doesn’t look smug, either. And Dee always looks smug when she has dirt on someone.

 _Give her a week_. That’s what Mac told him to do, at the start of all this. _Be honest, give her a week, and wait._ Well, Dennis has waited, and he’s waited a hell of a lot longer than a week; and Dee came to him, this time around. 

He exhales.

“Look, I… I know I’ve screwed this up.”

Dee raises an eyebrow.

“Manipulating me into forgiving you?”

“No,” Dennis snaps, “this. You and me. I want to fix it.”

Dee stares at him. She seems to notice that she’s doing it a few seconds in because she shakes her head, resettling herself as she crosses her arms.

“You’re a dick,” she tells him bluntly, like she’s rehearsed this speech before. “You’re a dick and a jackass and you’re an asshole, and I hate you. And I don’t forgive you.”

“Yes,” Dennis agrees.

Dee looks up to the ceiling, then down to the floor. When she looks back at him again it’s like watching something revert to its usual loop.

“You can stay,” she says, at length. “Not with me, but you can… you can come to Paddy’s, if you want. Occasionally.”

She pauses, looking thoughtful. Like she’s scheming, Dennis thinks, with a sudden drop in his stomach.

“Dee,” he says warily. “What are you -”

Dee taps her fingers on the desk behind her, meeting his eyes.

“You want to make it up to me? Being a dick for five years?”

“Yes,” Dennis says. He regrets it the second the word leaves his mouth.

“I have acting classes, Tuesday nights,” Dee tells him crisply. “No pay, but if you cover my shifts for me you can keep half your tips.”

“ _Half?_ ”

“Do you want me to forgive you or not, Dennis?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dennis mutters. Before he can retort, something bangs against the other side of the door. It’s followed by a flurry of muffled yelling - Mac and Charlie, from the sound of it. 

“Oh my god,” Dee says, exasperated, stepping past him and shoving the door open. Dennis follows her out, feeling... something. He’s not sure what just happened - or what he should do about what just happened - but the bar, as usual, is chaotic enough to drown his worries out.

“I told you, dude!” Charlie’s saying wildly, pointing a finger at Mac. “I told you! This isn’t gonna work!”

“Stay out of it, Charlie -”

“All right, shut up, both of you,” Dee snaps. “What’s the problem?”

“Mac has a _date_ tonight,” Charlie says, sounding accusatory. Dee cocks her head.

“Uh… so?”

“For chrissakes, Charlie, let the guy get laid,” Dennis says, letting his voice slip into a drawl. He can feel Mac’s eyes on him, just briefly, before they pull away.

“Is this pool guy?” Dee asks, poking Mac’s arm. “From the gym?”

“Pool guy from the gym,” Mac confirms. Dee raises an eyebrow as she offers him a high five. 

For the rest of the afternoon she pulls Mac aside, apparently intrigued enough by this development to dig her teeth into it. They sit with their heads bent together in one of the booths, except for a brief interlude where they leave to get coffee - Dennis determinedly ignores them, busying himself around the bar instead.

This situation is an asset, really. It’s the perfect way to keep Dee’s suspicions at a minimum, and it’s also the perfect opportunity for Dennis to fix his priorities: getting Dee on his side, getting into a decent program, and getting out of Philly again by January. That’s all he should focus on. There’s no room in his life for anything else.

Except for fixing up the bar, he allows. His lip curls in disgust as he flicks a rotting lime wedge into the trash with his thumbnail. How the three of them have managed to stay in business this long, he has no fucking clue. They’d have done better if he was here from the start, he’s sure of it. Dennis would’ve had this place booming in six months, easy.

He spends most of his time scrubbing grime off the counters. It’s quiet, no customers; Dennis half-wishes someone would show up, just for something to do. There’s dirt under his nails and his mind keeps straying backwards, caught on Charlie saying it like that. _Mac has a date._ Not just judging - scornful, almost. Like he’s genuinely angry about it.

At least he’s not the only one who thinks it’s rash. The bar is clearly in sore need of attention - Mac shouldn’t be running off to flirt with every guy he meets, he should be here. Not that it matters all that much. Mac wants to move on from this, clearly - from Paddy’s and from the drunken indiscretion last week - and that’s... fine. Dennis is fine. He just thinks there are better ways to do it than sleeping around.

Finally, 5pm crawls into view. Dee leaves early for her dumb acting class, grabbing her things - Mac shoulders on his leather jacket and Dennis doesn’t look at him, not for long, ducking his head and scrubbing a stubborn smudge of grease off a glass. He waits impatiently for the thud of footsteps and for the door to click shut. He hears the footsteps first; but they’re getting louder, not quieter. 

“Hey,” Mac says, drumming his fingers on the counter.

Dennis exhales.

“What?”

“Nothing, asshole.” Dennis doesn’t need to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Just wanted to check you haven’t lost the spare I gave you.”

It’s a stupid question. Mac knows he has the goddamn key - he tossed it in Dennis's direction two hours ago, laughed when he fumbled the catch. Dennis clenches his fists by his sides, stretching them out again deliberately, finger by finger.

“I’ve got it.”

“Right,” Mac says. “That’s…”

“Good luck,” Dennis says, without looking up.

“Thanks," Mac mutters. He doesn't sound particularly grateful at all.

“Later, dude,” Charlie calls out from behind the pool table. A car horn blares from outside - Mac turns on his heel, shouting, “I’m coming, goddamnit, Dee,” - and then the door slams shut. Finally, Dennis lifts his head.

“You wanna play pool ‘til we close?” Charlie says, glancing at him. Dennis sighs.

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u sm for reading and BIG thank u to anyone who's left a comment!! no joke you guys made my week. i'm abysmal at replying but if i could leave little hearts around ur messages i would. as always, i am on [tumblr](https://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com) yelling into the void ♡


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cws for brief descriptions of dissociation, smoking, and dennis being a bastard man

_October 23rd_

By eleven, Mac isn’t home.

Dennis doesn’t envy him all that much. The rain outside is so loud that he’s had to turn the volume up twice, and he’ll probably end up doing it again eventually - but at least he’s comfortable, on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie, and there’s a Women Who Kill marathon on TV, and he’s halfway through the pile of unfolded laundry that’s been staring him in the face for three days. So no, he doesn’t envy Mac. Not him, and definitely not the asshole he’s with. Dennis got a better deal than either of them.

Pool Guy, he reflects, folding a sweater, is a dumb nickname. It doesn’t explain anything - does he _work_ at a pool? Does Mac usually see him at a pool? It was a gym pool, he knows that much, which means Pool Guy probably lands somewhere on the spectrum of ripped; and gym rats are always assholes, so he’s probably insufferable. A ripped, insufferable, pool-frequenting idiot. His thumbnail skids over the sweater fabric, catching on it. Dennis swears under his breath as he pulls his hand back, scanning for damage.

Why is he letting this get to him? Why is he so - this kind of shit is beyond beneath him, he’s grown past it. A guy like himself, a confident, successful pre-vet college grad, should be mature enough to take the high road.

Dennis started the night with two fingers of scotch. He’s got half of one left. The warmth has seeped into him slow, syrup-like. He inhales deeply, hanging his head, and tries to let his thoughts seep out.

Eleven thirty crawls by. Women Who Kill gets replaced by an ad break, which gets replaced by some UFO documentary he’s pretty sure Charlie had on tape back in high school - and eventually midnight hits, the way it was always going to, and Dennis drops off the high road just for one second to down the remaining scotch and rub his temples, trying in vain to deter the headache thumping there.

The date was at 7. Mac's been gone since 5.

He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. It’s just an irritating piece of knowledge to have: everybody knows what it means when a date lasts this long. And the logic of Dennis’s brain dictates that irritating things are the only ones worth obsessing over, regardless of what his actual opinion is.

"Are you… folding shirts?"

The apartment door slams shut. Dennis cracks one eye open and watches a shadow fall over the TV screen, like someone’s standing behind the couch. The residual whiskey warmth is the only thing stopping his heartbeat from launching into the fucking stratosphere.

"Is there a problem with that?" he demands, craning his head back to glare at Mac properly. Mac cocks his head to one side - not mocking, just confused.

"I don’t do it."

"Clearly," Dennis mutters.

Seeing Mac again, now it’s happened, abruptly feels more uncomfortable than not seeing him ever did. Dennis clears his throat and picks another sweater out the pile in front of him, smoothing it into a square, just for something to do with his hands. If Mac hears the dismissal, he ignores it: he just stays where he is. Dennis gives him a moment to talk in, and then another, then loses patience, tilting his head back again and eyeing Mac warily.

"Do you need something?" 

"Nope," Mac says, tucking his thumbs into his belt loops. So he does own actual jeans, then. Motherfucker. "Wanna hear about my date?"

 _No_ , Dennis thinks.

"Sure," he says, flatly. "Hit me."

Mac flops on the other side of the couch hard enough to make the laundry basket keel over. Dennis grabs it before the contents can spill and has to bite his tongue when Mac kicks both legs out like an asshole, one on the floor by Dennis’s, knocking into his ankle, the other flung haphazardly on the coffee table.

"God, dude," Mac groans. "It sucked."

Dennis can’t help it: he laughs.

"Hey!" Mac jabs a finger at him as he scowls. "You said you’d listen."

"I am listening," Dennis lies, grabbing another shirt and folding it in half. "Go on."

Mac lets out another sigh.

"So, first off," he begins, ticking his points off on his fingers. "We were supposed to see a movie, right? But this guy wanted to watch some arthouse bullshit - and I’m not about to waste two hours of my life on _that_ , so I told him no way, and he got super weird with me -"

"What a surprise," Dennis mutters, just about out of earshot.

"And we got food at some rich bitch restaurant," Mac continues morosely, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. "And he talked about his ab routine for an hour, and then I got out through the bathroom window."

"Through the -"

"You weren’t there, bro," Mac insists. "It’s not like my moves were working anyway, okay?

"Excuse me?"

"Like." Mac waves a hand around, making a dissatisfied noise. "You know. Moves."

Resentment, without warning, takes over Dennis’s throat and shuts it tight.

"Well, maybe that was your problem." It comes out more clipped than he wants it to - Dennis grabs another shirt at random, staring down at it. "Maybe your moves need work."

"My moves are great, dick." Mac kicks his ankles. "I’m a total natural at this shit, okay -"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Mac says stubbornly. "You’ll see."

Looking up at him was a mistake. Mac’s still glaring, his chin tilted up. He’s still dressed in those stupid date night jeans and a hideous, baggy polo that makes him look scrawny more than anything else; his breath smells like the mint gum he’s been buying since high school and he’s infuriating, the way he always is -

Dennis sees red.

"You know what, Mac? You’re right."

Mac blinks at him, his brow furrowing.

"It’s not the moves that are the problem," Dennis continues, reaching out and plucking the collar of Mac's shirt disdainfully between two fingers, "it’s the clothes. Where did you get this, for chrissakes -"

"Not all of us have dad’s credit card on standby, all right?" Mac sneers, his cheeks flushing as he tugs himself free. "I actually work for a living, Dennis, I have a budget -"

"You don’t work for a living," Dennis says acidly. "You get drunk for a living and pay yourself for it."

Mac throws his hands in the air - his face is fully red now, his scowl is getting deeper, and Dennis feels more alive than he has all day. All week, even.

"Maybe I like the way I dress!"

"Never said you couldn’t," Dennis informs him, rolling his wrists and cracking them. "I said it’s a pisspoor attempt at a date outfit, and I imagine _pool guy_ , whoever he is, would agree with -"

"All I wanted was to come back to my own goddamn apartment and relax after a shitty night, you know that? Jesus."

Mac rubs his temples with the palm of his hand, exhaling hard. Dennis rolls his eyes.

"That’s not my problem."

It’s a balancing act, aiming the words right. Mac's whole body seems to bristle, tightening like a cat's does when its fur stands on end - and there it is, finally. The vindictive satisfaction Dennis can always count on to tether him down.

"Yes, it is! You were - you’re totally provoking me, dude."

Dennis scoffs.

"Don’t do that!" Mac shouts, getting to his feet and pointing at Dennis‘s face. "See?"

"I’m not doing anything -"

"You are," Mac insists, stubborn and done. "You know you are."

His phone starts to buzz. Mac swears under his breath as he digs it out his pocket.

"Busy, Dee." He pauses, and a frown clouds over his face. "You… what the hell did you do that for?"

Dennis can hear Dee's faint, tinny voice echoing from the speaker. Mac's frown deepens.

"You can’t just put bleach on bleach, that’s how you go bald. No, it’s not! It’s… holy shit, Dee, quit bitching and listen to me -"

He steps away, shouldering his jacket back on with his phone pressed to his ear and every curse word under the sun coming out his mouth; Dennis and their argument already forgotten, or at least discarded. Mac, apparently, has better things to do.

The door slams shut. Dennis grits his teeth, turns the volume up, and reaches for the whiskey.  
  


* * *

  
Mac stays gone for the rest of the night. Dennis doesn’t care about it, because he doesn’t care about Mac - he doesn’t even think about him until 10 the next day, when he trudges reluctantly to the bar for lack of anything better to do. Nobody acknowledges him when he slips into a booth, which is a relief. There’s a lot of yelling going on, which isn’t.

"He’s hot," Dee is insisting, tailing Mac around the bar. "We both know he’s hot. I don’t see what the problem is -"

"I already told you," Mac retorts. "He wasn’t my type, so would you let it go already and help me fix these?"

He rattles an armful of fairy lights at her. Dee ignores him in favour of standing her ground and crossing her arms.

"You spent weeks trying to get his number and now he’s not your type?"

"The guy was dull as shit, Dee."

"You dated Rex for six months."

Mac's face reddens.

"Because Rex was nice!"

"He was beyond dumb," Dee says coolly, "and you hooked up with him anyway. So, my question is -"

"I don’t know!" Mac dumps the lights on a table and throws up his hands. "Look, I'm not saying he wasn’t a beefcake, all right? He just wasn’t…"

Dee’s eyebrows inch higher.

"He wasn’t great to talk to," Mac says lamely.

Dee makes a strangled sort of sound.

"Excuse me?"

"You know!" Mac’s face is bright red, and he’s making wild, flailing gestures with his outstretched arms. "You - sometimes, you, you want someone you can -"

"Are you sick?" Dee demands, incredulous. "Are you possessed? Is that what this is?"

Mac groans.

"It’s not that weird, Dee, c’mon -"

"In general, no," Dee counters. "For you? Yes. If you’re going soft on guys, I’m retracting the friendship."

"You’re _ditching_ _me?_ "

The yelling cranks up a notch. Dennis fidgets, staring at the grain of the table he’s huddled over, and wishes he could sink into it.

Pool Guy wasn’t great to talk to. What’s that supposed to mean; that he and Mac fought too much? Or was it the opposite, that they didn’t even like each other enough to fight at all?

Dennis has trouble imagining what that’s like. He picks a fight with Mac every goddamn day. It’s an odd, dispassionate feeling, dissecting himself like this, but he can’t stop now he’s started: it’s true, anyway, they’ve always argued this much. There’s something about the way Mac acts which makes Dennis instinctively want to search out his limits, see how far he can push them before Mac pushes back. 

That disqualifies him from being easy to get along with, then. But… to be fair, Mac never said he wanted easy, he said he didn’t like whatever it was that Pool Guy had to offer. _He wasn’t great to talk to._ Whatever the hell that means.

"All right," Charlie announces, popping up behind the bar like a groundhog and wiping his dusty hands on his shirt. Dennis slides back into the present with a jolt. "Okay. Bad news is, the bar stuff credit card isn’t down here. Good news is, I found jerky, so we can split that if you want?"

"Gross." Dee wrinkles her nose. "No."

"Let’s just go out anyway," Mac complains, tapping her arm until he has her attention. "C’mon, Dee, screw the card. I’m starving."

Dee pauses. She tilts her head to one side, considering.

"I still hate you," she contends at length, "but fine. I want fries."

"Fuck you too," Mac says. "Yeah, I could go for fries. Fries and a shake, maybe."

Charlie shrugs.

"Cool." He tosses the jerky crumbs over one shoulder and follows Mac to the door. "I wasn’t feeling work today. You guys wanna go now?"

"I’m driving," Dee announces, stepping out onto the sidewalk, and Mac shouts indignantly, "goddamnit, no you’re not -"

Their footsteps fade to nothing. Half a minute later, Dennis hears the low stutter of a car starting up.

He used to let himself imagine it, occasionally. Coming back to Philly with new friends - or, if he was feeling particularly vindictive, a boyfriend. Some tall, handsome guy who’d look good next to him, the best kind of visual fuck you there is. Penn State had mostly been long hours in the lab and longer hours in an endless parade of dorm rooms and cramped studios; he didn’t go to many parties, didn’t join any societies, didn’t keep any numbers. The hookups he had were brief, anonymous things. He didn’t meet anyone worth remembering. That isn’t a problem and it’s not a regret, because Dennis is self sufficient by design - he’s the person everyone else his age would choose to be, if they had the balls to do it - no center and no tether, nothing to hold him down. Everyone’s got it in them somewhere, right? The urge to run. He just decided to do the smart thing and listen.

There’s a sticky patch on the table. Dennis only notices when he puts his palm down and pulls it back in the same instant, tacky strands clinging to his hand.

He should wash it off, he notes dimly. He should stand up, walk to the bathroom, and wash it off.

Somehow his body’s slipped out of sync. It’s moving in slow motion, all his reactions kicking in a second too late - Dennis stumbles into the table when he stands up, wincing even though nobody was there to see it, and makes a beeline for the bathroom so he can grab hold of the nearest sink, squeezing his eyes shut. He slows his breathing down but the lump in his throat jumps anyway, making it hard to swallow. _God_. 

It’s their fault. The conclusion hits so viciously and suddenly that it knocks him back a little: it’s true, though, this is all their fault. Dee and the others. The way they talk is stupid, it grates on him; it makes him want to camouflage himself until he fits in again. They use the same messy shorthand of a language they always have, the one Dennis used to know, but he never realised how impenetrable it was from the outside. He came here to hold his hand out so Dee could grab it, so she could get the fuck out of this city too, but Dee is - she’s -

He could leave tomorrow and she wouldn’t notice. Or, worse: she would notice, she just wouldn’t care. None of them would. That’s a lie; Mac would, eventually. He’d be relieved he could invite his hookups upstairs again. 

Dennis fumbles with the tap until cold water sputters out, shoving his hands under it and closing his eyes. It helps, a little. It gets rid of the mystery tackiness he picked up from the table. Slowly, the prickling fades to manageable levels.

There’s a loud bang from the main bar.

"Dennis,'' Charlie yells. "Dennis, dude, can we use your car?"

Dennis freezes. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, assessing his reflection for anything blotchy or wet - then looks apprehensively at the door.

"What do you want?"

"Your car," Charlie repeats insistently. His voice gets closer. "Y’know. Like, _your_ car. Can we use it?"

"My… what, the Range Rover?"

"Yeah!" says Charlie, kicking the bathroom door open without knocking. Dennis quickly pulls back from the sink. "Yeah, that one. Do you have it?"

"No, genius, I got a rental at the airport. I haven’t seen that thing since high school." Then, suspiciously, Dennis adds: "Why do you need a car?"

"Our’s is messed up again," Charlie explains. "And we wanna get food."

Dennis frowns.

"Your…?"

"It’s not that weird," Mac calls out, stumbling through the bathroom door and directly into Charlie’s back. "It’s - _ow_ , dude - it’s not weird, it’s a joint custody thing, okay? We have a contract and everything."

"Joint custody," Dennis echoes.

"See, Dee signed for it," Mac explains patiently. "So it’s her car, and she gets it seven days a week, except for the days when I want it ‘cause it’s also my car, and Charlie can’t drive but he has it every other weekend, except for when Dee wants it. It’s pretty simple."

"You don’t think that’s weird?" Dennis asks. He leans back against the sink, raising an eyebrow. "Three grown adults, who live separately, splitting one car between them, that doesn’t seem a little pathetic to you? At all?"

Mac's face morphs into a scowl. He mutters something under his breath, looking away, and Dennis restrains himself from sticking his tongue out.

"It’s a good system," Charlie protests. "I mean… okay, it would be cool if the engine stopped crapping out on us all the time, but -"

"Where’s your car, Dennis?"

Dee’s voice hits him like a hook sinking in water. Dennis’s chest jerks when he spots her in the doorway; hovering there like she’s reluctant to move any closer, watching him intently. Her mouth is set in a thin, sharp line. Whatever she’s planning, there’s no way to get out of it. He can already tell.

Dennis sighs.

"Mom and dad’s garage."  
  


* * *

"Is this breaking and entering?" Mac's whisper carries like a gunshot. "Dee, I can’t get done for breaking and entering, I only just got out of that community service thing -"

"Shut up," Dee hisses, smacking his arm. "We’re not breaking in, okay? We’re visiting, everybody visits their parents. It’s fine."

"They’re not my parents," Mac points out. "And we did break in. I busted that window pretty bad."

"I told you not to kick it, dude."

Mac huffs. Dennis can’t really see him, crouched in the stuffy darkness of his mother’s foyer, but he’d bet good money that Mac's rolling his eyes.

"Well I’m _sorry_ , Charlie, but I don’t know my own strength, okay -"

"Stop it," Dennis says sharply. His head is throbbing, and his patience feels like a ball of string being tossed around by a cat. "Jesus Christ - yes, this is probably breaking and entering, no, we are not going to get arrested. Mom’s on vacation, Frank is in New Jersey, so let’s just find the keys and get the fuck out."

"Dennis is right," Dee agrees, sounding vaguely disgusted by that statement. "Unfortunately. Whatever, let’s check the kitchen first."

Why everyone apart from him thinks stealing some keys is a 4-person job, Dennis does not understand. It would’ve been way easier to use his plan: which was Dennis going in alone, finding the keys alone, and starting the car alone, while the other three waited outside, or preferably at the bar. He would’ve been halfway back to Paddy’s by now.

The kitchen lights don’t react when he flicks the switch. It’s dark inside - a deeper, more subterranean dark than the hallway. There’s nothing around except empty cabinets and dust. Dennis sighs in disappointment.

"I could kick the garage open," Mac offers. "Me and Charlie hotwired that dude’s car last year, remember? We could totally -"

"No."

Mac huffs, irritated.

"Not seeing any other options here, Dee."

"You are not kicking down my bitch mom’s garage door," Dee snaps, opening a drawer and rifling through it. "Shut up and keep looking."

"And you’re not hotwiring my car, either," Dennis cuts in. He spins on his heel when Mac groans, his patience officially dead, squinting at the hazy shape of Mac's body and preparing to kick it in the shins -

"Got ‘em," Charlie calls out.

Dennis freezes still.

"Wait, seriously?" Mac says.

"Dead serious, dude." There’s the unmistakable jingling of keys being shaken. It sends a wave of relief all the way from Dennis’s shoulders to his toes. "They were on the table."

"Pass them here," Dennis orders. He’s surprised when Charlie actually does - and once his fingers close around them, feeling their familiar shape dig into his palm, the urge to murder everyone in a two mile radius finally starts to subside.

"All right," he says, exhaling. "Where do you assholes want to go?"

The Range Rover smells musty (mildew and old smoke, if Dennis had to pin it down), but the engine starts first try. Two tense minutes later, after reversing down the drive and crushing an ugly flower bed in the process, muscle memory clicks into place - Charlie whoops from the backseat when Dennis finally puts his foot firmly on the accelerator as they cruise down the main road, rolling his window down so he can lean his head out of it.

"I forgot how spacious this thing is, you know?" Dee stretches her weird long limbs out, yawning. "Like... ugly, but damn. It’s nice not being crammed in next to you morons for once."

Mac nods absently. He’s looking out the front side window with the kind of absorbed wonder you’d expect from a kid who’s never sat there before, watching the houses rush past.

He looks nice in profile. Even like this, with dust in his hair and a patch of unshaved stubble hiding under one ear, he looks… nice. In a general sense. There’s a red light at the intersection that leaves the engine idling; Mac turns in his seat and Dennis looks away, or tries to, but he’s not fast enough, so Mac's eyes manage to catch on his and hold there. His mouth quirks up. _Caught you,_ the curve says. 

Dennis coughs. He looks back at the road, ignoring the sudden roar of heat in his cheeks, until the light takes pity on him and turns green.

"Pull over," Dee says a few minutes later, tapping on the window. "That’s the diner I wanna go to, the one on the left."

"Yeah, yeah, all right," Dennis mutters. He haphazardly pulls the Range Rover close to the sidewalk and Dee’s out the door in the same instant. Mac and Charlie are hot on her heels, but at least they wait for him to stop first.

"Dennis, you wanna come with?"

Charlie’s half in the car, half out, glancing questioningly over his shoulder - Dennis would say he looked hopeful, if he didn’t already know better. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, trying to figure out what his answer should be.

"He won’t," Mac drawls, slamming his door shut. "Trust me, college boy always has work to do."

...And there it is.

"Maybe next time, man," Dennis says easily, as light and bland as his voice can go. "Thanks."

Charlie shrugs. He pulls back and thumps the door closed with one hand.

"Catch you later."

"Later, Charlie," Dennis echoes. His eyes flick over to Mac. "Shithead."

"Fuck off," Mac advises. Dennis flips him the finger out of habit more than anything else; and when Mac finally, thank God, turns around, he takes it as his cue to pull away from the curb.

It’s a nice day for the tail end of October - cool but cloudless. The Range Rover drives smoother than any of the rentals Dennis had in college. He pulls in at a gas station, appreciating the engine’s purr as he does, and Phil Collins plays from a speaker behind the cash register as he pays for half a tank and some peach iced tea. It’s just loud enough to make Dennis hum _Easy Lover_ the whole drive home, tapping his fingers on the wheel and closing his eyes briefly whenever the sun hits him right. He flicks the stereo on in Mac's apartment and Phil Collins picks up where he left off, crooning into the empty living room - Dennis laughs, startled.

"You’re kidding me," he says. _Easy lover,_ the radio repeats, cheerily ignoring his disbelief: _easy lover, like no other… before you know it, you’ll be down on your knees…_

The chorus hits with enough enthusiasm to make the speakers crackle. Shaking his head, Dennis kicks his shoes off and pulls up a chair at the tiny kitchen table.

Mac should really get a bigger place, he thinks idly. Dumps like this are only bearable for so long, it’s no wonder he’s struggling to find a roommate. Nobody wants to room with an asshole, let alone room with an asshole _and_ sleep on a glorified couch every night; if Mac had any common sense at all, he’d cut his losses and move somewhere spacious. Two bedrooms, no futon, and a kitchen that wasn’t lifted directly from the 70s.

Before, back when Dennis was someone he’d talk to, they never spent much time in Mac’s room (too small, too cold, and the lock was broken) - but whenever they did, Mac would bring it up like clockwork. The location was always the trigger. _When I move out,_ he’d say, or _when I get a place_ , or occasionally, _when we get a place;_ and he’d list all his demands, all his garish teenage-boy opinions on interior design, like he had any clue what he was talking about, and Dennis would listen until his patience cracked, and then he’d change the subject by tackling him off the bed. 

It’s strange, seeing him here. Something about it doesn’t sit right. The snag isn’t how mediocre the apartment is, it’s that Mac doesn’t seem to care about fighting for anything better: like he moved into this shithole and decided that was it, this was where he wanted to stagnate. The way Dennis remembers him, he should be hating every square inch and making it everyone else’s problem. 

This, he realises too late, is a dangerous train of thought. It picks up steam, digging deeper - Mac changed first, didn’t he? So why does he still blame Dennis for how they’ve ended up? Mac changed first. Mac left _him_ first. At least Dennis walked out to find something better; Mac didn’t even bother with a reason, he just started talking less, cancelling more, shying away when Dennis… when he tried to do small, insignificant things. Sling an arm around his shoulders, ruffle his hair. 

Occasionally, Dennis wonders if he knew. At least that would make sense: if Mac’s a far cry from a progressive paragon nowadays, out and proud and dating hot pool guys, he was even further from one ten years ago. It stings like hell, but at least it’s a reason. Mac knew before Dennis did, and that’s why he - that’s why they’re like this. That’s why he pulled back.

Dennis picks moodily at the tabletop. There’s a puddle of condensation forming around his iced tea. 

If Mac did know, he could at least apologise. Resentment lurches awake in his chest. Forget that, screw a goddamn apology; it’s not fair that Mac gets to have this so easily, without hesitating, it’s not fair that he gets to be comfortable, gets to be _proud,_ not when he -

But he couldn’t have known. Not for certain - Christ, Dennis barely knew. If it wasn’t the gay thing that scared Mac off, chances are it was the simpler, uglier alternative. Mac got to know him, didn’t like him, and left.

Dennis’s chair screeches as he backs away from the table, crossing the room putting his shoes back on (when did he take them off, even? When did he get home?) before walking down the stairwell separating him from the outside world. He breathes in deep at the bottom, closing his eyes.

He should go for a walk. That usually helps. He’ll walk around the block to clear his head and then… then he’ll do something useful. Grocery shopping, maybe. Or laundry. Anything inane enough to block his thoughts out.

Dennis gets three steps in when he realises, with a start, that there’s a familiar car parked up on the corner, and a familiar body bent over the open hood.

There’s a low brick wall lining the sidewalk. Dennis heads over, cautious and slow, and sits down on the edge. Mac’s got some shitty music playing from a stereo, the kind that used to blare at frat parties, and it’s loud enough that he doesn’t notice Dennis is there until he lifts his head, reaching for the water bottle propped on a stool nearby -

"You’re holding that wrong," Dennis says, taking a sip.

Mac jumps, cursing, and just barely avoids smacking his head on the bonnet. He scowls over his shoulder. Dennis arches an eyebrow.

"Do not come down here and pretend you know shit about cars," Mac warns, pointing a wrench in his direction.

"I didn’t," Dennis protests, wounded. "I said you’re holding the wrench wrong. What are you doing, anyway?"

"Checking the radiator hoses," Mac says, snatching the water back from him with his free hand and setting it carefully on the stool. His teeth sound gritted, for some reason. 

"Because…?"

"Because I think one of them is busted, Dennis, why the hell else would I be doing it?"

Dennis frowns.

"I was just asking."

"Well, don’t," Mac mutters, bending over the engine again. His back looks broader, angled down like that. There’s a patch of freckles splayed across his shoulder blades like someone spilt them there accidentally. Mac's still lanky the way he was five years ago, there are places he’s still growing into, he still gets zits under his chin, but looking at him is… interesting. In a way Dennis can’t entirely explain. It’s not even tied to physicality: from the limited data he has to work with, he has a feeling Mac at any age is going to be difficult to look at head on. Dennis hums, swinging his legs as they dangle off the wall.

"How was lunch?"

" _Jesus!_ "

Mac steps back from the engine, looking roughly as grease-smudged as he does irritated, and then he adds, in a tone so sharp Dennis can feel it cut: "Look, I don’t want to talk, all right? Fuck off. I’m busy."

Dennis’s chest shutters.

"Fine," he says coolly, pushing himself to his feet.

"Thank you," Mac mutters, not sounding especially thankful at all. Dennis hates him a lot in that moment, more than he has in a while; the resentful swell takes him by surprise, bubbling up in his throat.

"I mean, why would you need me around? Go ahead, man, ruin your car. Don’t let me stop you."

Mac’s jaw tightens. Dennis can see it happen, the way it locks in place. God, it’s so easy to rile him up. He’s always been sensitive to criticism.

"I know what I'm doing, Dennis."

Dennis snorts, folding his arms.

"Do you?"

"Yeah," Mac retorts. "So let me handle it, okay?"

"The way you handle your job?"

It rolls out his mouth with more derision than he thought it would. Dennis almost regrets it, right up until Mac's eyes go wide with disbelief and he sees how well that jab landed.

"Knock it off! You - you don’t even work at Paddy’s -"

"I've worked at bars," Dennis says. " _Functioning_ bars. Yours is not one, believe me."

"Take that back," Mac warns. He stands up, fucking finally, rounding on Dennis with a dark, furious look on his face; and Dennis doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything at all. Just watches Mac impassively, his expression schooled into something that will piss him off more.

"No," Dennis says.

"Don’t talk shit about my bar, asshole!"

"I wouldn’t have to if it had a single redeeming feature -"

Mac's face is flushing an angry, blotchy shade of red.

"It’s a good bar," he says stonily.

"It’s a dive bar," Dennis shoots back, "and you can’t even get that right."

"God, fuck you!" Mac’s voice has turned lower, louder. He’s genuinely angry - Dennis feels a momentary burst of satisfaction, knowing that he dragged that out of him. " _Fuck_ , Dennis, why do you have to be such a dick all the time?"

"Because you’re delusional," Dennis snaps. "It pisses me off."

But that... misfires, somehow. Mac doesn’t flinch, he just laughs. A short, disbelieving kind of laugh.

"Dennis, you’re the one trying to get Dee to crawl back to you," he points out, stalking forward until they’re barely two feet apart, prodding him hard in the chest - like he wants to shove him, but he’s holding back. "Which isn’t gonna happen, by the way. You don’t get to call me delusional, dude, not when you’re a goddamn -"

"Shut up," Dennis hisses - that was a bad move, he can tell. He sounds too riled. It didn’t hurt, he’s not the kind of person who’d let that hurt, but it still - it was -

"See?" Mac’s voice is veering close to a sneer. "You act like you’re so much better than us, all ‘cause you left." He steps forward again, closing the distance almost entirely - Dennis should back off, but he can’t. His legs won’t let him. "But we don’t need you, okay? We’re doing fine, we’ve got Paddy’s, we’ve got each other, we’re _fine_ , and you know what I think your problem is? You don’t have anything, Dennis. You never give a shit about anyone but yourself."

"Thanks for the psych assessment," Dennis says evenly. "Can I go?"

Mac’s throat bobs. He’s still got his fists clenched like he’s deciding whether to throw a punch - and then his eyes dart off Dennis, falling to the sidewalk, and he shakes his head, exhaling with a short, exhausted laugh. He goes right back over to the car like Dennis never said anything, as though he isn’t there at all. Mature.

Dennis stands there for a second longer, eyeing the taut curve of Mac’s back as he settles under the hood. Mac reaches for the stereo and wrenches the volume dial around until his stupid, shitty frat house music is deafening, and Dennis scoffs, at the music, at Mac, at the whole pathetic situation, then turns on his heel back towards the building stairwell.

In an ideal world, he’d go somewhere else. Crash at a friend’s place, hit up a bar, walk around the block like he wanted in the first place. Dennis slinks inside instead, dragging his feet. He doesn’t feel like a shower but he takes one anyway once he’s in the apartment, with the goal of using up as much of Mac’s hot water as possible; and he paces laps around the living room afterwards, his skin prickling from half an hour of humid heat.

Dennis sits down on the couch. He gets up, plumps the battered cushions, then sits down again. He makes some of the ginger tea he found at the back of a cupboard and doesn’t drink any of it, just leans blankly against the counter holding the cup as it cools, counting the water stains on the opposite wall. Three by the skirting board, two more in the middle. The biggest one is spread across the ceiling like an ugly cobweb.

He’s not lonely, he decides. Mac, as usual, was projecting all over the place and mistook it for fact. If Mac was in this situation, Dennis has no doubt he’d be lonely - because Mac has no self control, no restraint, and he’s the categoric opposite of self sufficient. Sure it would be nice, eventually, to have someone to shoot the shit with, someone who picks up when he calls, but it’s hardly a necessity; there are more important goals to focus on before Dennis can have that. It’s something he’ll have to earn.

He turns around and pours the lukewarm tea down the sink. The cup gets stranded on the counter, rattling from being dropped so hard, but Dennis has already crossed the short distance between the kitchen and the couch - he reaches underneath it, feeling around until his fingers close around a zipper - 

There’s a fine coat of dust on the pencil case when he pulls it free. Dennis makes a face, brushing at it gingerly and wiping his fingers on his jeans.

He doesn’t like keeping makeup down here, but it’s the best option he has. What little storage the apartment has is already full of Mac’s shit, and he’s not exactly about to put any of this in plain view by the bathroom sink - Mac hates him enough as it is. He flicks a brush with one fingertip, watching specks of foundation shower down and catch the light.

It drowns the recklessness out. Sorting, cleaning, working through the neat row of products on the table; something flicks off at the mains and stays quiet, Dennis gets absorbed without having to try. In the end, he feels the front door slamming shut rather than sees it, the vibration hitting hard like two cars colliding, but he can see Mac’s hazy reflection in the window out the corner of his eye. 

The way he freezes would be comical, in any other situation. Dennis can pinpoint the moment it happens down to the millisecond. The way Mac glances at the table and goes still mid-step; eyes widening, brows darting up, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together.

His hair is fluffy and damp. There’s a peeling logo on his shirt for some bar he’s clearly never been to, and it’s hanging off him the way all his clothes seem to do.

"You showered," Dennis blurts out.

Mac blinks, looking startled.

"I hit the gym," he says. He takes another step closer, still looking at the spread of makeup on the table. Dennis twitches, which makes the compact he’s holding snap closed - and that, in turn, makes Mac go still again, his eyes flicking from the table to Dennis’s hands. For a long minute, Dennis waits for him to say something ugly.

"What’s the pencil for?"

Dennis puts the compact down slowly as he stares at Mac’s curious face. He waits for the trick: for disgust, or anger, or for him to laugh, or… something. Something more like what he was braced to hear from Mac’s mouth.

"That one," Mac clarifies, as though Dennis somehow didn’t hear. He points at the table.

"It’s not a pencil, idiot." Dennis says. He clears his throat. "It’s eyeliner."

"Oh." Mac nods, rocking on the balls of his feet. Then he adds, hesitantly, "Dee... uses wet stuff, for that. It’s weird."

"Liquid is a bitch to work with," Dennis hears himself say. "This is more subtle."

God, why is he still talking? Why hasn’t he walked out yet? It would be easier if Mac looked away, at least, gave him some time to recover - but he won’t, so Dennis can’t, because it’s like there’s a thread pulling them together. Something tying them into orbit.

"Oh," Mac repeats, quietly. Then: "You mind if I…?"

"Go ahead," Dennis says, not sure what he’s agreeing to but determined to keep this bizarre illusion of a ceasefire intact, and Mac takes that as his cue to sit down on the other side of the couch. He flips the TV to a random channel and doesn’t move, except to kick his feet out and cross them at the ankle.

There are glances, when he thinks Dennis doesn’t know. The pattern goes like this: Mac will stare at the TV, sneak a glance at Dennis, then look back again. It makes Dennis’s stomach twist nervously someplace low. He spins the pencil in his hands, trying to decide what to do with it - and eventually he risks reaching for the sharpener on the coffee table, trying to block Mac out again. 

He starts out with three turns. Dennis touches the pencil’s point with his finger, testing it, then sharpens it again. He runs it across the back of his hand a few times to smooth the edges out.

The back of his neck prickles. 

For all of five seconds, Dennis resists the urge to look. He tries to wait, head bowed, until it’s safe to raise his head - but Mac keeps watching him. He keeps watching, even when the commercial break ends, even as Dennis looks up. Dennis meets his eyes and Mac stares right back, looking… curious. No anger, no disgust. Just curious.

At the very back of his mind, where all his impulsive ideas live, it registers that Mac wouldn’t look bad. There are certain places that undeniably make Dennis pause: his cheeks and his pouty cupid’s bow. He’s seen firsthand how dark Mac’s eyes can get in the right light. 

Before he can think it through, Dennis folds his legs up neatly underneath him, kneeling on the couch. Mac’s eyes go the widest he’s ever seen them - Dennis ignores it and taps him on the shoulder with his free hand.

"Come here," he orders. Mac just stares.

"What are you -"

"Just do it, moron," Dennis snaps. "I want to prove a point."

Mac hesitates. Maybe it’s for the best that he backs off, then they can put an end to whatever this is - Christ knows Dennis is going to end up regretting it anyway - but, no, he’s shuffling forward now, turning his body so they’re face to face. Dennis swallows. He cups Mac's chin in his free hand.

"Liquid liner isn’t worth shit," he murmurs. "Okay? Pencil goes on way easier. Like this."

Slowly, Dennis traces an arc over his lash line. He keeps his other hand on Mac’s cheek for balance; still cupping it, his palm flat. There’s a speck of something just by his nose. Dennis brushes it away with his thumb, and Mac exhales in a short, unsteady shudder that skids over Dennis’s cheek.

"So you... you do this for dates?"

"Not every time," Dennis says. He tries to concentrate on Mac’s eyes, and not his voice. "Otherwise it’d ruin the effect. Hold still."

"I _am_ holding still," Mac protests, which is a blatant lie; he’s squirming around even if he doesn’t realise it, jerking his head whenever Dennis tries to adjust his grip. Dennis rolls his eyes, opens his mouth to tell him to stop, but what comes out instead is, bizarrely -

"You have nice lashes."

"Thanks," Mac says doubtfully. His voice curves up at the end like a question. Dennis’s laugh is unsteady - it takes a lot of effort to hide the way he winces, but at least Mac’s eyes are closed.

"You have no idea what that means, do you?"

"Nope," Mac says.

"Good," Dennis mutters. He clears his throat and tries shifting his grip again, tilting Mac’s chin up just so - and Mac doesn’t fight it, this time, letting Dennis move his head where it needs to go.

"It feels weird," Mac says, just as Dennis finds the right angle for the second line - speaking makes his face shift, makes his eyelids flutter. Goddamnit.

"Everything feels weird the first time," Dennis points out, irritated. " _Drinking_ feels weird the first time, shut up and stop moving around."

Mac, asshole that he is, decides to do the opposite. He just laughs a little, his mouth quirking up.

"Remember Charlie’s attic?" he asks, cracking one eye open to look at Dennis. "God, what was that, 10th grade? And I got us that six-pack from the -"

"Yeah," Dennis says thickly. "I remember."

"Fuck, that was bad beer," Mac murmurs, wrinkling his nose. It makes his face shift, so that Dennis’s thumb slips along the curve of his jaw and rests right on the edge of his mouth.

He looks good like this. He looks like he’d be at home in one of the bars Dennis used to blow off steam in; the kind of guy he’d smile at and cross a crowded room for, touch lightly on the wrist. They should’ve met last year, when he lived near that place with $4 specials. Dennis would’ve crossed the room for him, dodging the faceless people in between, and smiled the way he usually did when he wanted someone to buy him a drink. He would’ve curled his fingers loosely around Mac’s forearm and hoped Mac would lead him out the door.

"I’m surprised anyone sold it to you," Dennis says shortly. "You looked like a weed."

"Hey," Mac protests. "C’mon, I was - I had a growth spurt, okay?"

"Three years later," Dennis points out, steeling himself as he leans in again. Mac’s eyes flick shut automatically when he gets close enough. He tries not to think about it.

"Yeah, well." Mac’s pouts look even more obvious up close. "Whatever. It happened eventually."

"It did," Dennis allows. Just briefly, he lets himself take in Mac’s shoulders, his bare arms, his thighs. They look broader from this angle, thanks to the way Mac’s twisted around to face him. "Now hold still."

Mac, to his surprise, doesn’t retort. He just sighs, shifting closer by another inch, and then stops moving at all. Dennis’s thumb brushes his mouth, skates across it when he’s trying to get a better grip, but Mac stays put - there’s a sound that might have been a catch in his breathing, but Dennis isn’t sure, he’s not paying attention, too busy forcing his hands to stay steady.

Slowly, he tilts Mac’s chin up. Drags a smooth dark line across his eyelid to match the other one, neatens the edge with a light, careful touch of his fingernail - and then he pulls back, grabbing his compact off the table.

"You’re done," he says. Mac’s eyes flicker open and land on him in the same second, zeroing in on Dennis’s hands again. "Want to see?"

Mac nods - and then he leans forward with no hesitation, snatching the mirror out of Dennis’s grip before he has time to reprimand him for it. He makes a soft, intrigued sort of sound when he opens it, holding it up above his head at an absurdly high angle.

"Huh," he says. "Weird."

"Weird how?"

Dennis’s voice goes terse as he braces for it - he knew this was coming, he knew Mac wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut -

"I dunno," Mac says. "Like… I can see it, but I can’t see it, you know? Like one of those Where’s Waldo puzzles."

"Where’s Waldo," Dennis echoes. His ears are buzzing.

Mac nods.

"Yeah, dude." He frowns. "Little guy in a sweater? Always in the -"

"I know what Where’s Waldo is," Dennis snaps.

"All right," Mac says, raising his hands. "Jesus."

Dennis swallows thickly. He doesn’t want to ruin this, whatever it is, but he can’t see a world where that doesn’t happen - it feels like stepping on water that hasn’t fully frozen over, aware that any step could crack the ice. There’s too much underneath for the surface to stay stable.

"You don’t…" Mac starts, then stops. He licks his lips. "You can keep this stuff in the bathroom, if you want, you don’t have to... y’know. Hide it."

There’s a note in his voice that hasn’t been there for a long time. It takes Dennis a moment to recognise it: the slow, deliberate caution that means Mac’s thinking out loud, putting pieces together without a map.

"I wasn’t hiding it," Dennis says stiffly.

"Okay," Mac says. "Offer’s still open."

His tone hasn’t changed. This is the part of him that confused Dennis most when they were kids - how Mac could curse, cheat, lie, run from the consequences of those things like a coward, but still have space for something else underneath. Deeper, softer impulses.

"Thanks," Dennis mutters. Mac licks his lips.

"I should…"

"Mac -" Dennis cuts in, conscious of the fact that it feels like the start to a much longer sentence, and that his mouth’s gone sticky and dry - but Mac is off the couch in the same instant, not looking at him. Dennis can hear him breathe out, hear the ragged edges of it. Mac shoves a hand through his hair. 

"I," he stutters, glancing at the door, "I’m gonna -"

"Right," Dennis echoes. His voice does this awful cracking thing in the middle, which makes Mac’s eyes snap over to him again - Dennis watches his throat work, like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.

Mac turns around. The front door opens, then shuts.  
  


* * *

_October 28th_

  
A roll of fog moves in that weekend, the kind that wraps around buildings, soaks into them. It makes the city feel greyed out to the core, and it puts Dennis in a heavy, sullen mood. The knowledge that he’s fucked his life up for the fiftieth time in a row doesn’t help.

Mac came home again on Friday night, but the rest of his schedule is a mystery that Dennis can only half unravel, putting the tracks together day by day like a fucking boy scout: a cup of coffee here, still lukewarm, a pair of dirty socks there, strewn on the bathroom floor. Even when he’s out of sight, Mac manages to be irritating. 

He’s almost used to it - this new reality where they apparently still annoy each other as much as possible, just from afar - when Mac decides, early on Tuesday afternoon, to approach the couch without warning, barely giving Dennis time to lift his head and stare in shock before he says: "My car’s screwed."

"Fascinating," Dennis replies coolly. He puts his phone down. "Why do I care?"

Mac’s nostrils flare as he frowns, glancing to the floor - looking… irritated? Nervous? Somewhere between the two, if Dennis had to guess.

"The car’s screwed," he repeats, through gritted teeth, "and it’s raining, and I need a ride, so…"

Dennis’s eyebrows shoot skyward.

"So I’m supposed to waste gas on ferrying you to your dumb bar?"

"This is serious!" Mac snaps. He crosses his arms, bottom lip curled down - Dennis, in record time, feels exhausted. He sighs, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch. 

"I want a drink," he warns. "Two drinks, Mac. On the house."

Mac rolls his eyes.

"You steal all our booze anyway," he mutters, scuffing the floor with the toe of his shoe. Then, once he catches the look on Dennis’s face: "All right, all right, Jesus. Two drinks."

"Thank you," Dennis says primly.

He lets the radio drown the silence out, relying on the heavy thudding rain to fill in the gaps. Mac’s in the passenger seat again, huddled so close to the window he’s practically sat on it, like Dennis is somehow poisonous by proximity. He doesn’t say a word the whole time, not even a thank you when Dennis pulls up out front - which is fine, it doesn’t matter. Dennis doesn’t need one, especially not from him. Mac doesn’t wait around, either; the second the car stops he makes a beeline for the bar, and fuck it, that’s fine, too. So long as he gets his two free drinks at some point tonight, and so long as he doesn’t have to see Mac’s face again for the next few hours, Dennis doesn’t give a shit what he does.

He goes through the steps of his usual Paddy’s routine. Preps the main bar for opening (since nobody else seems to do it), wipes crap off the tables, messes around on the pool table with Charlie - and then, with the hard work out the way, Dennis snags a beer, gets comfortable in a booth, and watches the idiocy of an average night unfold in slow motion.

"What was our total yesterday?" Dee says, dumping an armful of dirty glasses in the sink. Mac glances at her across the room, halfway through throwing a dart.

"Eighty nine dollars, thirty four cents."

Dee winces.

"That’s not a lot of money."

"No, it is not," Mac agrees.

"Well, we need to fix that, Mac," Dee tells him, her voice getting tighter. "Because my rent is due in two weeks."

Mac groans - throwing the dart and missing spectacularly. It bounces limply off the wall as he turns around, folding his arms.

"What the hell do you want me to do about it? Kidnap people, make them drink here?"

"I’d like you to help out," Dee snaps, "instead of slacking off every goddamn night - "

"Maybe," Charlie interrupts, sad and doubtful. "Maybe we’re just... not good bar people."

Mac stares at him, looking scandalised.

"Dude."

"I'm just saying! we’ve had this place… what, two years?"

"Two years in December," Dee says flatly.

 _"Two years_ in December," Charlie repeats. His chair creaks ominously as he fidgets on it. "And we’re nowhere near breaking even -"

"Bullshit! We’re gonna kick ass at this once we get this place off the ground -"

"And what if we don’t?" Dee challenges, moving out from behind the bar to advance on Mac, prodding his chest once she’s in range. "Huh? Do you have a plan for that, shit-for-brains?"

"Yeah, actually," Mac says, scowling, "my plan was you guys not quitting on me the second things got hard -"

"I'm behind on rent," Dee snaps. "You’re behind on rent, I don’t think Charlie’s even paying his anymore - we barely have enough for a mechanic to look at the car -"

"And we don’t need one, okay? I told you, I can -"

Dee lets out a high, strangled sort of groan, flinging her hands in the air.

"Yes, we do, moron! Because, and I hate to break it to you, Mac, I really do, but you do not know _dick_ about cars! You can’t just blindly fix everything by pretending you know how, that’s not how it works. Okay? That’s not how anything works."

"Giving up isn’t gonna help either," Mac argues. "We need to keep going, you know, we need to have… goddamnit, what’s the -"

"Perseverance," Dennis supplies automatically.

Mac's eyes dart to him. His cheeks start to color.

"Right," Mac says. He clears his throat. "Yeah. Look, my point is, there’s no way in hell anyone else out there is better than us. We’re great bar people. We’re, like. _Premium_ bar people. We just need to get people’s attention, so they see that.

"We need to make a spectacle," Dee says slowly. Her voice has changed: the anger has faded out. It makes Dennis feel weirdly relieved, even though this isn’t his fight at all. "Yeah, okay. I see your point. We should put on a show."

Charlie brightens, leaning forward on his stool.

"Like a musical?"

Dee hums, contemplative.

"Sort of," she says. "More of a Hulk Hogan arrangement."

Charlie cocks his head to one side.

"...You want Paddy’s to have a wrestling team?"

"Shotgun head wrestler," Mac says instantly, perking up.

"I want to start a _rivalry_ ," Dee grinds out. "As in - god, whatever. Look. Why is it fun to watch Hulk Hogan smash people?"

"He’s Hulk Hogan," Charlie says, slowly. "It’s some uber ripped macho dude smacking around another uber ripped macho dude, what’s not to like -"

"But you can go down to the gym and watch that happen in real time," Dee points out. "There’s an investment angle with Hulk. You know he’s fighting other dudes ‘cause they’re rivals, they talk shit about each other. So when you watch him ping pong Roddy Piper around the ring, you feel vindicated, or whatever. Because you know the backstory."

Mac frowns.

"So?"

"We could totally do that!" Dee insists. "We could have a rivalry. We wouldn’t even have to do anything different, we fight all the time anyway. Put out some tip jars like they do at Starbucks, get some buzz going, boom. Done."

"So we’d argue like normal," Charlie says, slowly, "but just… what, let people vote on who wins?"

Dee shrugs.

"Yeah."

"Dee, you bitch," Mac says - surprised, admiring, and slightly stunned. 

Dee’s face lights up.

"You like it?"

"Fuck yes!" Mac crows, beaming at her. "This is gonna be awesome, we’re gonna make bank -"

"Is this a joke?"

Three pairs of eyes swivel to Dennis’s corner as one. His skin prickles.

"Uh," Charlie says. "No?"

"So you’re really just…" Dennis jerks his hands around in the air, trying to encapsulate it all. "Going to change a huge part of your business model, for _no reason_ , based on a conversation about Hulk Hogan, and, and - wrestling, and Starbucks -"

"Here we go," Mac mutters. 

"This isn’t how business works! Especially not a bar, for chrissakes, I guarantee people aren't going to pay to hear three morons arguing."

"What’s your idea, then?" Dee sneers. "Enlighten us with your college wisdom, if you’re so smart -"

"A party," Dennis says instantly. "You guys have owned this place for two years, right? Throw an anniversary party. Hell, combine it with New Years, make it a double party. You need to make an impact, there’s your inside ticket."

"Shit," Charlie says, clearly impressed. "Okay. I like Dennis's idea."

"Thanks, man," Dennis says. Charlie beams at him.

"Oh, bullshit!" Dee protests, scowling. "Quit fraternizing with him, he doesn’t get a say in this -"

"Some people are just better at ideas, Dee," Dennis says smoothly, cracking his knuckles. "It’s not a big deal."

"Shut up," Dee snarls. "You’re stupid and a bitch and your hair looks like shit. Shut up."

Dennis's jaw drops. He narrows his eyes.

 _"Your_ hair looks like shit, because you bleach all the life out of it -"

"Dennis," Mac says, suddenly in front of him, hands raised. "Dennis, dude. Back off."

Dennis can feel his jaw work.

"But she -"

"I got it," Mac insists. His hands are on Dennis's shoulders now; pushing him back, slow but firm. "Alright?" Then, glancing behind at Dee: "Let’s do both. The rivalry thing and the party thing. No reason not to, right?"

"I'm down for both," Charlie cuts in.

"See? Charlie’s down for both."

"No way," Dee snaps, "there’s no way I'm -"

Dennis winces as a shrill, tinny bastardisation of Britney Spears starts to play without warning. Cursing, Dee digs her phone out of her bag.

"Hey, Artie." There’s a brief pause, and then: "Right now? Yeah, I - shit - hold on -"

Dee covers her phone with her hand, glaring at the room at large.

"I'm going to class," she says. "But we’re doing _my_ plan, boners. Okay? Non-negotiable."

"Your plan and a party!" Charlie insists. "‘It’s been ages since we had a party, Dee, come on."

Dee pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Fine," she grits out. "My plan and a party. Jesus Christ."

"Sweet!" Charlie says appreciatively. He grins at Dennis, offering him an air-five - Dennis, to his own surprise more than anyone else’s, returns it.

* * *

Hours after Dee’s stormed out, even when the night outside turns dark and cold, the bar stays deserted.

Dennis likes that he doesn’t have to talk to any customers, and that he makes more drinks for himself than he does anyone else. The part he’s struggling with, overall, isn’t the lack of business - it’s that he has nothing better to do than watch Mac and Charlie play darts. Or, more specifically, try and fail to play darts, since neither of them know how.

"You’re gonna miss, bro," Charlie’s saying, perched on the pool table’s edge. "You’re always gonna miss if your posture’s fucked up."

"Shut up," Mac mutters. He squares up with the board face-on like he’s imitating a cowboy shootout. Dennis can already tell he’s aiming too high, but he’s not about to admit that out loud - it’s important to learn from your own mistakes. The angle is making Mac’s sleeves ride up, exposing his feather tattoo.

"You aim better with your eyes closed," Charlie supplies helpfully.

"Shut _up_ , Charlie."

"It’s true! Your body, like. Aligns with the poles and shit, ‘cause of magnetism. Dennis, back me up."

"No comment," Dennis says, taking a sip from the dregs of his beer.

"See?"

"I’m not throwing a dart with my eyes closed!" Mac protests, exasperated. "Can you shut the fuck up while I take my shot, please? Is that okay with you?"

"Sure," Charlie says. Mac huffs, settling into the same bizarre shootout stance as before, pulling his arm back -

"Pussy."

The dart clatters off the wall with a sad thunk.

"That was gonna be a bullseye!" Mac shouts. "That was - goddamnit, Charlie, I had it lined up, I _had_ it -"

"You didn’t have shit, dude," Charlie says, cackling. Mac’s scowl gets even deeper - the kick he aims at Charlie’s shins doesn’t make landfall, but he manages to shove him off the pool table anyway - and they scuffle for a minute until Charlie tackles him to the floor, knocking a chair over in the process. 

"Truce," Mac wheezes. "Fuck - truce, get off me. You weigh a tonne."

"Nah," Charlie says. He flops backwards on Mac’s chest with a loud yawn, lying on him like a hoodie-wearing, oversized puppy, and announces, "I’m beat, man. Can we close already?"

"What time is it?" Mac mutters, rubbing his face. "We can’t keep closing early, dude, we’re supposed to stay ‘til three."

"It’s 2:30," Dennis says.

Mac glances at him, still sprawled on the floor under Charlie’s weight - he looks ridiculous, but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. Privately, Dennis adds that to his list of irritating attributes.

"Fuck it," Mac says, after a pause. He pushes himself off the floor, grabbing Charlie’s outstretched hand once he’s on his feet. "If nobody’s here now, they’re not gonna be here in half an hour. Let’s go."

Charlie nods, yawning again. Dennis watches them fumble haphazardly around the bar, flicking off lights, locking doors - and five minutes later the three of them are out in the cool darkness of the back alley, hands huddled in their pockets.

"You need a ride?" Mac asks, once they reach the sidewalk. Charlie shakes his head. 

"M’good," he says. Mac ruffles his hair as he starts walking - Charlie rolls his eyes, ducking out of reach, and then he’s gone, heading out into the night as Dennis opens the driver’s side door, watching Mac climb into the passenger seat.

It feels threateningly, unnervingly normal.

Once he’s noticed it, Dennis’s apprehension won't shake. If anything, it gets worse: writhing around restlessly in the center of his chest as he drives until it’s condensed into a cold, sharp knot, digging in under his ribs.

"I’m not coming in tomorrow," Dennis announces. He can feel Mac eyeing him in the dark.

"...Okay?"

"I’m busy," Dennis elaborates, painfully aware that he needs to stop talking. "I have… other things to do. Errands."

"Sure," Mac repeats slowly. Then, before Dennis can die from the effort of staying silent, he nods at the glowing light of the convenience store across the street and says, "can you drop me here?"

Wordlessly, Dennis pulls over. Mac jumps out, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. 

Dennis takes a deep, steadying breath. He flips the radio on and keeps it playing the whole drive home, stubbornly not thinking about anything else. 

Considering his mother is chain smoking personified, it’s weird that Mac is so anal about cigarettes. Dennis briefly considers having his emergency smoke in the kitchen out of spite - but in the end he huddles by a window, watching his breath billow into the dark and trying, unsuccessfully, to slow his racing pulse.

The apartment feels too quiet and too loud. The fridge hums and a door slams somewhere down the hall and the floor creaks, even though Dennis isn’t doing anything more strenuous than standing on it, and he doesn’t miss Mac - it’s just a habit, that’s all, they’re usually here together. It’s difficult to let go of something familiar once you’ve had it.

Mac is rude, pushy, overconfident, and he can’t throw a dart to save his goddamn life; he’s everywhere nowadays, all over Dennis’s thoughts, leaning over his shoulder, dozing next to him while the TV light makes strange shadows play on his face. Dennis knows how Mac looks when he’s sleeping and how he looks when he stops, all fuzzy and sleep soft, dark hair fluffed up like a bird in the cold in a way that practically demands touch - Dennis doesn’t touch, doesn’t look, doesn’t want to, but he still knows.

He takes a long drag of smoke into his lungs, eyes closed.

Mac doesn’t know those things about him. That’s not a relief or a disappointment, it’s just a statement of fact. Mac doesn’t know.

He needs to remember where the boundaries are. They’re not really roommates, they’re definitely not friends, and Dennis doesn’t belong here - two months from now he’ll be out of this apartment and out of Mac’s life, and eventually they’ll sink back into the mutual resentment they’re so familiar with. Mac doesn’t know him, and that’s a good thing. Dennis should’ve been more careful.

"Hey," Mac says.

He’s hovering by the front door when Dennis looks over - he can’t seem to decide if he wants to take his leather jacket off, playing nervously with the sleeves. Dennis exhales.

"Hi."

There’s a brief pause.

"Dennis," Mac says, right as Dennis blurts out, "about earlier -"

Mac snorts. Dennis laughs too, despite himself, ducking his head; that’s better, a little. The air’s still tense, but at least he can breathe around it.

"You first."

"I wanted to say thanks," Mac says. "For backing me up when Dee and Charlie were ragging on me. At the bar, I mean."

Dennis clears his throat. _I don’t think one word counts as backup_ , he’s about to point out - but he’s tired of fighting, and he knows what Mac was trying to say, sort of - how sometimes all it takes is the right word, in the right place.

"We’re on the same team now," he says stiffly. "I wasn’t about to let you make a fool of yourself."

"Right," Mac says. "Well… thanks."

Finally, he decides to shrug his jacket off and chuck it on the couch. When he stretches his arms, eyes closed, the baggy shirt he was wearing underneath rides up his shoulders. Dennis looks away and stares pointedly at the street outside again.

Think about other things, he advises himself. Think about taxes. The economy. How expensive cigarettes are getting. Mac’s fingers rolling a joint. Dennis never envied many things about him, back then, but that was definitely top of the list - how deft his hands were, precise and practised in a way that seemed impossible to beat -

Something nudges his foot. Dennis jumps, glancing around, but it’s only Mac moving closer, standing a few feet away on the opposite side of the window. Unaware (as always), of how inconvenient he is.

"What were you gonna say?"

"Nothing," Dennis replies automatically. Mac raises an eyebrow - but when Dennis doesn’t budge, he doesn’t push, just rolls his eyes and looks out at the dark street outside.

"It’s kinda nice," he says. "Having someone on my team for once."

"Don’t get used to it," Dennis mutters. Mac laughs.

"What, you’re gonna ditch me for Dee?"

"Maybe." With his free hand, Dennis reaches out to prod him in the chest. "I could."

"And here I was, thinking you weren’t bad for an asshole who hates me," Mac says dryly.

"I could say the same about you," Dennis drawls. Mac snorts, ducking his head and scuffing the floor with his foot. The lines of his face look softer like that. He looks like he’s waiting for Dennis to say something stupid so he can agree with it: _let’s go out tonight,_ or _let’s cut class_ , or _let’s steal a car and never come back_ ; waiting for Dennis to say something stupid, so he can say yes. Not that he always said yes. His other favourites were duh, Dennis. Obviously, Dennis. As though the doubt was the stupid part, rather than the question.

Dennis keeps his eyes on him, trying to figure out what to say. It’s a weird, skittish silence. He’s not sure if he wants to quit this conversation entirely or wait it out until the end - judging by the way he’s chewing on his lip, Mac’s facing the same problem. At least he doesn’t have the upper hand for once.

"When did you start again?"

It catches Dennis off-guard. He meets Mac’s eyes, and Mac nods pointedly at the cigarette in his hand. Oh.

"Last year," Dennis clarifies. He swallows, and then the rest of his sentence stumbles out. "I, uh. I messed around with a guy who left them lying around everywhere. Goddamn neanderthal."

A muscle tightens minutely in Mac's jaw. Dennis stares at it, briefly transfixed, before he realises what he’s doing and pulls his eyes away.

"What about you?" he asks, gestures at Mac’s tattoos with his free hand. "When did you get..."

Mac shrugs.

"Couple of months after you left." He grins ruefully, spreading his arms. "I knew you’d hate them, see? That was all part of the appeal."

"I don’t hate them," Dennis says.

Mac lets out a low, amused huff of a sound, shoving his hands back in his pockets.

"I don’t," Dennis insists, frowning. "Why would I hate them?"

"Uh, because you’re you?" Mac points out, shifting on his feet to lean back against the wall. "Dude, chill out. I knew it the second I got inked, I was like -"

"They’re fine," Dennis says stiffly. "They’re… you’re fine. I don’t hate them, stop putting words in my mouth."

It’s so uncomfortable to say that he half wishes he had the guts to lie, but he’s too tired to figure out how - he just wants to keep a safe distance from the real issue here, which is that Mac could get as many white trash tattoos as he wanted, he could dress like a medieval reenactor or put on fifty pounds or start balding at twenty-five, and he would still, inexplicably, get under Dennis’s skin. Dennis managed to keep him out of sight and mind for this long only for all his hard work to fall apart in a month, because this isn’t escapable, apparently, the way he’d hoped it was, it’s not something he can manipulate with distance or time. It’s just there, hardwired in.

"Okay," Mac says slowly. He’s using that ‘don’t believe you, not about to argue’ sort of tone, the irritating one. Dennis scowls, preparing for a fight; then yelps when the end of his cigarette licks his fingers, fumbling for a second before flicking it out the window. Mac starts to laugh.

"Stop it," Dennis warns.

"Your face," Mac says, ignoring him completely, "holy shit -"

"I could’ve been burned!" Dennis hisses, and that makes Mac tilt his head to the ceiling with a loud, exaggerated sigh. Despite himself, Dennis’s lips twitch.

"Hey," Mac accuses, narrowing his eyes. "I saw that."

"You didn’t see anything," Dennis tells him sternly. It’s too late, though; he can feel his cheeks getting warm, his mouth curving up, and even when he ducks his head and steps away Mac follows him, utterly relentless in his campaign to be the single most annoying thing in Dennis’s life at all times.

"Called it!" He points triumphantly at Dennis’s mouth. "Fucking called it, bro -"

"I’m laughing at _you_ ," Dennis cuts in, but he forgets whatever the rest of his argument was; Mac’s grinning so big, so wide, and his dark hair is flopping around on his forehead, making a mess of itself. God, he looks like an idiot. 

"Bullshit," Mac says, not missing a beat. "I’m right and you know it."

"Uh huh."

It’s hard to keep his voice dry when he’s smiling like this. Dennis assumes he succeeds, since Mac rolls his eyes as he steps back. 

"Shut up," he says over his shoulder, "and pick a movie already."

Dennis frowns.

"We’re watching something?"

"It’s a Tuesday," Mac clarifies, as if that explains anything at all, crashing on the couch and making the springs creak. Dennis takes a half step forward, then stops.

"I know what day it is."

"Movie night, Dennis," Mac says slowly, like Dennis is missing something obvious. "We always watch stuff on Tuesdays. It’s our thing."

"We watch stuff every night," Dennis points out. It slips out on autopilot more than anything else, because the rest of him has latched onto Mac’s last two words and won’t let go, his heart squeezing around them like a clenched fist: our thing. A Mac-and-Dennis thing. That’s what Mac has decided this is.

"Well, yeah," Mac says, stumbling a little. "But I…" He makes a short, frustrated sort of sound, scraping his fingers over the couch cushion. "Look, doesn’t matter, if you’re gonna be a dick about it -"

"I’m not," Dennis blurts out. "I mean - I won’t, I mean… yes. Yeah. I’d -"

Mac’s expression clears again. 

"I’d like that," Dennis finishes lamely. 

"Cool," Mac says. "That’s… cool."

"Yeah," Dennis repeats. He shuts his eyes, inhales through his nose, and wills himself to stop talking.

Mac’s looking at him with an odd, unfamiliar expression on his face. He clears his throat as Dennis watches, bowing his head and reaching for the remote - and even that, even just looking at him, is enough to make the knot in Dennis’s chest throb painfully behind his ribs.

This, Dennis realises, is going to be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY!!! not dead just had some depression due to [gestures at the state of things] but i'm chill now. thank u for being so kind & leaving such sweet comments & for sticking w me despite my inability to do anything on a schedule, i hope the chapter makes up for the wait ♡ if it doesn't, u can yell at me on [tumblr](https://macfoundhispride.tumblr.com)


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